


Pastures New

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Regina can't resist meddling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-08-08 14:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: Belle French was looking for a new challenge and a change of scene so when the opportunity of a promotion arises, she decides that it's time to leave Boston and set up home in Storybrooke. But now she's got a challenging boss and a nightmare of a landlord to deal with. Has she bitten off more than she can chew?





	1. Chapter 1

Belle has probably read the letter clutched in her hands more than ten times before it finally sinks in. Her heart is still pounding. It had been a bit of a long shot applying for the head librarian role in a small town in Maine, certainly a big step up from the assistant position she currently holds in Boston, but it seems the gamble has paid off.

She’s been waiting on tenterhooks for nearly a fortnight, that punch in her stomach every time she heard the clatter of her letterbox and the sound of mail landing on her door mat, hoping, yet trying not to hope, for a vanilla envelope to be lying there with a Maine stamp on it. She’d almost given up on ever hearing back from the mayor’s office so when the usual thump of the post announced this morning’s delivery, she’d not rushed downstairs but instead had taken her time, reaching the end of the latest chapter of Great Expectations before slipping on her silk dressing gown, the one with the lilac daisies winding up the sleeves, and pottering downstairs.

Belle pours herself a mug of piping hot coffee, butters a thick slice of toast, and then trots through to the living room to settle down on the faded, well-loved squishy sofa, and reads the letter again, wanting to thumb her nose at some of her less than supportive colleagues who’d said she was too inexperienced, too young, too everything to stand a chance of getting an interview.

But Belle is not stupid – far from it, in fact. She’s got all the requisite qualifications, has pushed herself to learn as much as she possibly can, which is more than can be said for some of the older assistants she works alongside. She’s not ashamed of being ambitious, of wanting to better herself. She knows she can do it, knows she can run a team, turn around a failing service.

She’d looked at other job adverts, some of them very well paid, but knew they were probably a step too far and she wouldn’t give up her life in Boston for just any role. So, when the post in Storybrooke had come up, Belle had carefully researched the town to see whether it might be somewhere she could see herself living. 

And she’d liked what she’d seen. Small, but not too small, built around a marina filled with sailing boats. Mountains, the sea, pine forests all a short drive away. Excellent amenities – an independent cinema, lots of cafes, a bar or two – even a bric-a-brac store where she’d be able to pick up lots of knickknacks and second-hand books. The library’s clearly under-funded and could do with a lick of paint and a restock but nothing she couldn’t manage, with some creative thinking and community spirit.

Crunching meditatively on her toast, Belle rereads the letter.

Dear Miss French,

Ref: 45770

Thank you for your application for the position of Head Librarian, Storybrooke, Maine. We would like to invite you to attend an interview on 9 May at 10.00 at the Town Hall, 1005 High Street, Storybrooke. 

You will be asked to give a short presentation on the challenges and opportunities of delivering library services. You may not use visual aids or notes.

The interview panel will comprise: Mayor Regina Mills and A. Gold.

Please ensure you arrive fifteen minutes before your interview and that you bring with you two forms of photographic identification with proof of address.

If you have any questions or wish to withdraw from the appointment process, please contact Ruby Lucas, Secretary to Ms Mills at rlucas@government.sb

Belle sips her coffee. 

Regina Mills. She imagines a woman in her late fifties, dyed blonde hair in a tight bun, yellowing teeth, probably wears a lot of tweed. 

And A. Gold. Why no first name – are they male? Female? Either way, they’re probably old, dull and more than little worthy, Belle decides and with that A. Gold is dismissed from her mind. She has more important things to be doing than wasting time thinking about some faceless jobsworth. She has public accounts to read, facts about the library to research, a presentation to start sketching out and a new outfit to buy.

 

00000

It’s almost a quarter past nine on the morning of Belle’s interview. It’s one of those glorious spring mornings; clear blue skies, a gentle breeze that ruffles the ringlets tickling her cheeks and a soothing heat that makes her lean back on the bench in the town square and close her eyes, savouring the rays as they warm her face. 

She’d woken up at some ridiculously early hour after a disturbed night’s sleep, so she’s already been for a five mile run and drunk three strong black coffees in the hope the caffeine keeps her energy levels up.

Sighing, Belle opens her eyes just as two people cross in front of her and mount the steps to the white front doors of the town hall. A woman, with sleek dark hair, in a tight fitting red suit that shows off toned legs and a flat stomach. The man next to her is the same height, so not exactly tall. He’s walking with a slight limp and she realises it was the tapping of his cane that had alerted her to their presence. He too is in a sharp suit although his hair, long enough to curl against the top of his collar, makes her think that maybe he’s not just a boring civil servant.

Interesting, Belle says to herself, watching them as they disappear inside. They look quite the power couple and she idly wonders for a second or two how long they’ve been together for, before shaking her head. Time to clear her mind of trivial thoughts and fill it with facts and figures. Time to shine.

“You’ve got a good look going on there,” chirps who, Belle assumes, must be Ruby Lucas, a six feet tall stunner. Belle anxiously glances down to make sure there’s no risk of a costume malfunction before smoothing down the skirt of her wrap around dress and checking that the belt is tied securely. “Navy is definitely your colour,” Ruby continues. “Brings out the colour of your eyes.”

Belle is grateful for the compliments and the easy chit chat that helps put her at ease. Ruby lopes along the corridor, Belle click clacking along in her new burgundy suede stilettos until they reach a set of imposing bronze studded wooden doors. Ruby knocks and there’s a sharp “Enter.”

As Ruby stands to one side to let her go through, she leans in to whisper in Belle’s ear. “Look, I think the town needs some new blood and you seem like you’re just the sort who might shake things up a bit. So - some advice for you before you face those two in there,” and she jerks her head in the direction of the room behind them. “Regina, well she’s all bark, no bite so don’t let her intimidate you. She likes people who can hold their own with her, believe me.” Ruby winks at Belle. “And as for Gold…”

The same voice says in an impatient tone “We haven’t got all day. I said ‘enter’.”

“Better not keep Her Highness waiting,” Ruby says, so Belle never gets to hear her thoughts on the second interviewer. “Good luck, and I’ll see you on the other side.”

Belle takes a deep breath and turns the door handle. When she steps over the threshold and sees the two people from earlier this morning sitting behind a huge oak desk Belle hopes they don’t hear the small huff that escapes her lips. So, Regina Mills is not a blonde and A. Gold is most certainly a man.

Belle walks over to them, exuding as much confidence as she can. They’re both on their feet and hands are shaken, formal greetings exchanged, by Ms Mills at least. Gold remains silent, an inscrutable expression on his face. 

“Please, take a seat Miss French,” the mayor says. Belle takes a moment to settle herself, pours a glass of water and then after a sip, waits for the interview to start.

“Before we begin, Miss French, some introductions. I’m the mayor of Storybrooke and have overall responsibility for funding all the public services, including the library. Mr Gold is a director on our spending committee and he is here today in that capacity.” Her tone is brusque and Belle is grateful for Ruby’s warning. Brusque she can deal with.

Belle watches as Ms Mills takes a quick glance at her resume before fixing her with a hard look. “Why do you think you’re the right person to get the library up and running again. You don’t exactly have a proven track record in this area?”

Not the easiest ice breaker, Belle thinks, but she’s spent the last week doing very little other than preparing for this so she’s got an answer that she feels should head off any real concerns about her ability to do this job. She moistens her lips and starts to speak.

After thirty minutes, she’s delivered her presentation (‘anyone with a laptop and a good memory could have given us the same set of information’), fended off a hostile line of questioning about her reasons for wanting to move to Storybrooke ('how can you guarantee us that in six month’s time you won’t have got bored and moved back to the bright lights of Boston') and Gold is still yet to speak – a fact that has not passed Belle by. He’s sitting there like a malevolent spider, long fingers tapping the desk in front of him, the light catching on a – is that skull ring…?

A dry, masculine cough, brings Belle’s thoughts back to the present.

“We’re not boring you, I hope.” The tone of his voice matches the cough. 

“You’re Scottish.” 

The metallic taste of blood in her mouth tells her she’s bitten down on her bottom lip a little too hard.

There's a gleam of something in his eyes that, if he was a warmer man, might be construed as humour but it's so fleeting she can't be sure. “It’s a great pity that observation skills are not a core requirement for this role, Miss French, and that a proven track record in managing budgets is.” 

Well, at least Belle has worked out what the ‘A’ stands for. 

Arsehole.


	2. Chapter 2

Gold and Regina wait until Miss French closes the door behind her with what some might think unnecessary vigour and the sound of her heels can no longer be heard echoing down the hallway.

Well, that had been an interesting sixty minutes, Gold thinks. Based on her CV, he'd gone into the interview with low expectations of Miss French. Instead, she’d been younger than expected, prettier than expected and considerably more feisty that expected. He’d thought he’d be bored by some bookish spinster but instead had found himself rather amused and intrigued in equal measure. 

Gold takes a greatly needed sip of water, conscious that his fellow panellist is studying him, much as an owl might weigh up a mouse, silent and bright eyed.

“So, what do you think?” Regina asks, idly rolling a pen between thumb and forefinger. “Do you think she’s up to scratch?”

“Well, she certainly held her own with us which I suppose is something to be applauded,” Gold acknowledges. “She doesn’t have as much experience as some of the other candidates, however. Ms...” Gold consults the score sheet in front of him “Harbottle has a far more impressive career history.”

There’s a silence as they both think back to just how terrifying Ms Harbottle had been. So many teeth, all of them yellow, some of them crooked.

“Although I think we could probably deduct several points on the grounds she appeared to be sporting a dead duck masquerading as a hat and the remains of what I took to be a long dead goat around her shoulders if the smell emanating from it was anything go by.”

Regina shudders. “It almost brought me out in a rash just looking at her.” She picks up her own sheet of paper and runs her eyes down the list.

“Alright. Let’s go through them one by one, starting with Mr Williams.”

Gold rolls his eyes. “He of the comb over? He’d give any child under the age of six nightmares so that’s a ‘no’ from me.” 

Regina nods and adds a neat red cross next to his name and carries on to the next person.

“Lucinda Carnell-Jones.”

“Lives too far away and not willing to relocate.” 

“Lavender Pilkington.”

“Who says out loud that their favourite book is anything by Barbara Cartland?”

Regina shudders, a sleek vision in black. “And what was she thinking turning up dressed head to toe in pink?”

Gold snorts. “And you wonder why librarians have such a bad name. Seriously, I’ve never seen such a bunch of no-hopers. So, Harbottle we’ve already discounted. Which leaves us with Miss French.”

Regina reaches over to grab Belle’s resume again to skim read it while Gold leans back in his chair and thinks longingly of his study and cracking open that new bottle of scotch. And it’s only just eleven o’clock in the morning.

“I just...” He pauses. “I just don’t feel she’s right for the role. I’m sure she’s smart but I think in six month’s time she’ll be gone and we’ll be back here interviewing the same sorry bunch of losers.”

Regina hums. “I’m not so sure. She’s clearly given the role a lot of thought, came armed with some decent proposals for how to engage better with the community, bring in younger readers, reach out to some of our older citizens. Her references were glowing, too.”

She looks across at Gold. “Seriously, I think she’s worth a punt. And let’s be honest, even if we only have her for six months, it’s better than having any of the others for six years.”

Gold still doesn’t say anything, his expression giving little away but Regina knows him well enough to be able to tell he was riled by Miss French’s refusal to react to his increasingly provocative line of questioning (“Wordsworth. How unoriginal”). Which had, to Regina's ill concealed delight - earned him a ferocious glare and a detailed rebuttal on exactly why there was nothing cliché about choosing him as her poet of choice. 

For Regina, this makes her all the more certain that Belle is exactly the right person for the job. She’s no pushover, despite her diminutive stature, and it will do Gold good to not have everything his own way for once. The look on his face, like that of a cat dunked in a bucket of cold water, had made Regina reach for her glass to hide the smirk that wanted to keep breaking out.

“Come on Gold admit it, she held her own with you in that interview and you didn’t like it much. Well, tough, my friend. I say we offer her a contract, with a three-month probationary period. Agreed?”

Gold can tell Regina’s made her mind up. He throws his hand up in the air, grudgingly conceding defeat. “Fine. But on your own head be it and don’t come crying to me when little Miss Bright and Beautiful heads off in search of pastures new.”

“Deal. Now get your cranky ass out of here and start writing up the employment contract and I’ll ask Ruby to draft the letter of appointment. I’ve got more interesting things to be getting on with than watching a middle-aged man pouting because he was bested in an interview.”

“Very well.” Gold grabs his cane and gets to his feet. “I’ll bid you a good day, Madam Mayor. Enjoy the paperwork” and offering a mocking nod, leaves Regina alone.

He stops off at his office to pick up his suitcase, ready to make his way over to the shop, but then decides that a pick-me-up might be in order and as Granny’s is on the way he might as well take a well-deserved break, top up his caffeine levels and catch up on all the news. 

He steps outside and savours the sun that hits his face. It’s shaping up to be a lovely day.

00000

Belle had left the interview feeling distinctly disgruntled and far from confident in the outcome, although slamming the door behind her on her way out had momentarily perked her up. The Mayor had been fine, asking sensible questions and nodding along to Belle’s answers, but Gold - smug, annoying Gold - had just used the time to take cheap shots at her, questioning her judgement and making her feel like a speck of dust beneath her shoe.

She’d stomped out to where Ruby was sitting, prepared to just snap out a ‘thank you and goodbye’ but a quick ‘hey how did it go?’ had brought her to a standstill, the temptation to give vent to her spleen overriding the need to escape.

“Well it could have gone better,” Belle sighs. “A bit more warning about Gold wouldn’t have gone amiss, either,” she adds, but tempers this statement with a small smile. Ruby offers her a nod of encouragement and Belle is about to fill her in when the door opens and a small group of people dressed for business make their way purposefully over to the desk. 

“Listen, I’ve got to go, but I take my lunch at noon. If you’re not having to rush off, why don’t you meet me for a coffee – or something stronger - and we can do a full debrief? Granny’s, over on the high street, at 12 o’clock.” Ruby’s eyes are alive with mischief and well, Belle’s taken the whole day as leave so why not.

“Sounds great, I’ll make the most of the weather and explore the town. See you over there.” She waves a cheery goodbye, suddenly feeling much happier, and steps off in search of the sights of Storybrooke.

00000

After a mooch down to the harbour (disappointingly the bric-a-brac shop Belle spotted sported a ‘closed’ sign) she and Ruby are ensconced side by side in a high backed red faux-leather booth affording them privacy, burgers and a plate of fries between them. Two glasses of red wine to the good Belle is enjoying regaling her new friend with Gold’s poor interview technique.

“And then he asks,” she says, putting on a Scottish accent and trying for a growl that makes Ruby laugh out loud “’if I’ve ever had an original thought in my head’, simply because I dared admit that I liked Tintern Abbey the best of all Wordsworth’s poems, like I’m some sort of teenage simpleton incapable of independent thought.”

Ruby snorts and takes another slurp of her iced tea. “I did warn you,” she chortles.

Belle throws her a look. “Hardly,” she says darkly. “Seriously what is up with the guy? He sat there all dark and brooding, like a cut-price Heathcliff, as if he’d smelled something bad stuck to the bottom of his shoe. You know the ironic thing? That when I first walked in there, I thought it was going to be Mayor Mills who was going to give me the third degree and the harmless guy sitting next to her would be left to ask me all the fluffy questions. Boy, I got that wrong.” 

Belle pauses to take a healthy bite of her burger and chews meditatively. Ruby bumps shoulders with her. “Listen, don’t take it personally. I’m sure you did great. Plus, Gold doesn’t like anybody apart from perhaps Henry, Regina’s son.”

“So, what does he like?” Belle asks, intrigued despite herself.

“Terrorising his tenants for one. I’m warning you now, if you do get the job and end up renting from him, make sure you pay on time and the full amount or you really will face his wrath,” Ruby tells her. She starts ticking things off on the fingers of one hand. “What else? Expensive scotch. Making deals. Designer suits. Let's just say that the man doesn’t have to worry about money.”

Belle hums. “Then you’d think he could afford a haircut,” she says, and snorts at her own joke. Another question pops into her head and out of her mouth “What’s the ‘A’ stand for? Arrogant? Awkward. Awful?” 

Ruby doesn’t say anything for the moment, just studies Belle as she eats the last French fry, enjoying how her face flushes under the scrutiny. “For someone who claims to not like the man much you sure seem very interested in him.”

Belle splutters as Ruby raises an eyebrow. “What…No. No, I’m not. I just like to – you know. Know about people.” 

Ruby throws a sceptical look her way. “The lady doth protest too much,” she chirps before glancing down at her watch. “Shoot. I’m going to be late back. D’you mind if we settle up at the counter?” 

Drinks hastily finished, they’re busy collecting their belongings when a dry cough alerts them to the fact they’re no longer alone. Belle stills and then lets her eyes travel slowly up from a pair of highly polished shoes before they finally settle on Mr Gold’s stony visage. 

“Miss Lucas. Ms French” He leans forward on his cane, hands resting on the gold carved handle, suavity personified. “Good to see – uh – that you’ve bonded over a love of fast food.” His mouth curls upwards but the smile is not reflected in his eyes. “And gossip.”

Belle knows she’s quite possibly goggling at her potential future employer but she can’t quite get her brain and mouth to cooperate. To make matters worse, Gold swivels until he’s directly facing her and then shoots her a glance that’s brimming with malice.

“And just for the record, Ms French, much like your choices of poetry, your imagination really is rather lacking. I’m sure if you applied your mind more effectively you could do much better than ‘Awkward’.”

He watches Belle, gauging her reaction.

“And in the spirit of offering free advice, your Scottish accent needs work." His smile is small, sharp and nasty. He eyes first one, then the other. “Well then Miss French. You can look forward to hearing from Ms Mills in due course. I’ll bid you both a good day.”

Neither say anything as they watch him make his way out of the diner and disappear around the corner. It’s only then that Belle realises she’s been holding her breath. She’s blown this. Blown it big time and she’s only got herself to blame.

Ruby squeezes her arm. “Ignore him. He’s just having a bit of fun at your expense. The decision about the job is Regina’s to make, not his. I’ve got to dash but drop me an email and we’ll sort an evening out.” Another squeeze and with a flash of long legs she’s gone.

Belle turns to the counter. The older woman behind the counter gives her a sympathetic smile and holds up the coffee pot. “You look like you need a shot of caffeine so why don’t you take a seat. On the house.”

Belle smiles her thanks and settles onto a bar stool. Ruby’s right. There’s no point in worrying about what’s done. She pulls a slim book out of her bag. Coffee and Wordsworth. The perfect way to calm her nerves.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been a week since the interview and Belle’s almost given up hope when an envelope with a Storybrooke stamp is pushed through the letterbox with a satisfying thump. Belle rushes downstairs and there, lying on the mat is a thick white envelope that is surely too fat to just contain a rejection letter. Heart thumping and not wanting to give herself time to get her hopes up too high, she rips it open where she stands on the welcome mat, the morning sun streaming through the glass front door panel to warm her face, the mat’s bristles making her toes curl.

And lets out a small whoop of joy.

It does indeed contain an offer, signed by Mayor Mills herself: a permanent role assuming she passes her three-month probationary period, to start in July, her starting salary (twice what she’s currently on), details of one or two letting agents if she chooses not take up the offer of the apartment above the library. She idly wonders how to go about finding out more about this mystery flat ‘above the shop.’ It would certainly be easier and cheaper than having to go flat hunting but she’s not sure if a lack of physical and mental space between her workplace and home is conducive to being able to switch off.

She carries on reading. It all seems very straightforward to her, until she gets to the final paragraph, which contains a less than pleasant surprise.

“Your contract of employment and tenancy agreement are being prepared by Mr. A. Gold. On receipt, please sign and return to Mr Gold. He can also assist you with, and liaise on any queries regarding the accommodation arrangements.”

Belle’s heart sinks like a stone. She’d hoped that in case of being offered the role, she would be able to avoid ever crossing paths with that Scottish arse but it seems fate is colluding against her.

Not for the first time since last week, Belle wishes she could turn back the clock to when she was thinking about ordering the second glass of wine in the diner and how instead of allowing the adrenaline coursing through her veins to rule her head she’d had the sense to put a stop to the lunch time drinking. Then she might just have saved herself from a life time of embarrassment and having to avoid one of the most prominent businessmen in her new home town. Still looking on the bright side at least the wording in the letter implies that Gold would be acting purely as an intermediary in resolving her accommodation issues. 

Because that really would be a disaster. Gold as her landlord doesn't even bear thinking about. But Belle doesn’t believe in dwelling on things that cannot be changed. What’s done is done. What will be, will be. And with that she makes her way to the kitchen where she starts preparing her breakfast. To celebrate the news, she puts some freshly ground coffee on to brew, chooses her favourite cup (duckshell blue with the tiniest pink roses, edged with gold) and cracks some eggs in a pan to scramble.

As she’s beating them with a drop of cream and a liberal sprinkle of salt and pepper (so therapeutic) Belle’s mind strays back to how Gold had looked when he’d faced her in the diner and the expression in his eyes that had done uncomfortable things to her insides (is it physically possible for your stomach to turn into molten liquid?) and instead focus on everything she has to do in the next six weeks to ensure a smooth move to Maine. There’s so much that needs to be done. Sending an acceptance letter to the mayor, handing in her resignation letter and agreeing her notice period, leasing her apartment, packing everything up, booking a removals van. And that’s before she finds something to live although if she likes the flat that comes with the job that will save her a lot of time and stress.

Belle takes the notebook she keeps by her recipe books so she can jot down a to-do list, a timetable, and also the non-negotiables when selecting an apartment – maybe even a small cottage. She’d love to live somewhere with period features that she can decorate to her own taste. And maybe even be allowed to have pets (she’d always sworn that her first cat would be black with white paws and bid and exceptionally long whiskers).

But first things first. Caffeine and eggs, followed by her letter of resignation.

00000

Regina throws the sheaf of papers on the desk and glowers darkly at the man seated opposite her, one immaculately clothed leg crossed over the other, shoes perfectly shiny, navy blue tie with a neat Windsor knot.

“Does something displease you, Madam Mayor?” Gold asks, a lopsided grin showing off his gold tooth.

“Seriously, Gold. I know she got under your skin at the interview but this…” and she jabs a scarlet nail at the document, “this is ridiculous. I want you to go away and rewrite it and this time try – and I mean try – to not put off our preferred candidate from accepting the role. Or do I need to remind you that Ms Harbottle has threatened to seek you out to discuss exactly why her fifth attempt at securing a job with us has again failed. I’d be more than happy to pass your personal mobile number on to her.”

The grin is replaced with a flat look in those dark eyes of his that Regina is very familiar with. If truth be told, she’s been surprised at just how strongly Gold has taken against Miss French. She’d seemed pretty harmless at the interview; sharp witted enough to hold her own against Gold, solid credentials, positive references from her employer. Belle’s smile was bright, her brain brighter, and that enthusiasm would go a long way to breathing new life into the library.

Indeed, her son was already jumping up and down in excited anticipation of being able to get his hands on a never-ending supply of new books and not for the first time she wonders where Henry gets that bookish streak from.

“She did not get under my skin. It’d take more than some bookish miss with unoriginal taste and even less original thought to do that.” 

Regina raises an elegant eyebrow and this drives him to further dig himself a deep hole in which to fall. “Fine. If you must know, I overheard her gossiping about me with that secretary of yours in the diner after the interview….”

“Executive assistant,” Regina snaps. “If you want my advice, don’t ever use ‘secretary’ within her hearing if you value your balls. She practically eviscerated Killian Jones when he called her that.” She reflects for a moment. “Which reminds me, I should give Ruby a pay rise. I’ve barely seen hide nor hair of the man since, when he’d spent the last three months practically knocking down my door in his desperation for additional funds to carry out repairs to the wharves.” 

Gold huffs a quiet laugh and drops what he’d been going to tell Regina about the conversation he’d overheard at Granny’s. Killian Jones is the bane of everyone’s life, a man who can never take no for an answer, who pesters women with what he mistakenly thinks is flirtatious banter, and who is irredeemably stupid – a cardinal sin in Gold’s view.

“Duly noted,” he says. He could certainly imagine Miss Lucas being rather savage, what with those big white teeth of hers. He picks up the contract and runs his eye over it. “I still don’t see what’s so terrible about this though. It’s firm but fair. And if she bothers to read it and wants changes made then I’m sure we can discuss it like the adults we are.”

Regina sighs. “Some of the terms are a little – draconian.”

“Not at all. We only have a couple of references to go by and well, they could have been primed by Miss French to write only flattering remarks about her conduct. And I don’t want a tenant who likes to party and bring god knows who back to the apartment and trash the place. I believe in taking a belt and braces approach to these legal matters and given it’s my property I think it’s only right and proper the agreement covers every angle.”

“If she’s as smart as I think she is, Miss French would be mad to rent that place and be answerable to you,” Regina mutters, but loudly enough for him to hear. Gold glares at her.

“I heard that.”

“You were meant to.” She pauses. “Look, I know you like to drive a hard bargain…”

Gold interrupts. “Fair. A hard but fair bargain.”

Regina waves a languid dismissal. “Fine, hard but fair. But if you put her off because of this contract, you won’t just have me to worry about. It’ll be Ruby.”

“I’m not scared of Miss Lucas,” Gold bites out.

“No? You should be. She liked Miss French a lot. They had lunch together and Ruby came back speaking very highly of her. And I trust Ruby’s judgement. So, for the love of god, don’t allow your – whatever it is – about Miss French to cloud your judgement and do something that drives her away.”

Deep down, Gold knows that Regina is right, much as it grieves him to admit it. He grips his cane tightly. “Very well, I’ll take another look through both documents before I send them to her. But I’m not promising anything.”

Regina gets to her feet and smooths down her skirt. “Well, on your head be it. But underestimate her at your peril. And don’t come crying to me if it all comes falling down around your ears.”

Gold’s eyes gleam. “Oh, there’s no danger of that, Regina. I’m the king of the loop hole so trust me when I tell you there’ll be no room for argument once it’s signed.” He too gets to his feet. “I’ll let you have a copy once the contract has been signed and returned. Good afternoon, Madam Mayor.”

Regina waits until he’s closed the door behind him before she unlocks one of the drawers in her desk and withdraws a crystal decanter filled with scotch, and a matching glass. A drink well-earned, she thinks as she takes a sip. 

As she savours the burn of the liquor, Regina finds herself wondering yet again why Miss French has clearly stuck a nerve with Gold, a man who rarely voices a strong opinion about people. Unless it’s 'Idiot' Jones. Or the 'Holier than Thou' Nolan clan. Or any of the nuns. 

Come to think of it, who hates nuns and why would anybody call them ‘gnats’? Another sip of scotch goes down. Fine, maybe he does have strong views.

Still. He’s clearly got too much time on his hands if he’s got his Armani pants in a twist over the librarian of all people. Regina's thought for a while that Gold needs to get out of that ridiculous pink palace and start socialising instead of turning in a recluse. Regina drums her nails on the desk. Perhaps it’s time for her to host a summer social event: drinks, canapes, a spot of fund raising, a chance to promote the new work of the library. 

A smile playing on Regina’s lips she picks up the phone. “Ruby? Could you pop in at say three o’clock. And bring a notepad, we’ve got some planning to do.”

Gold’s not going to know what’s hit him.


	4. Chapter 4

A car that’s more rust than metallic red pulls up with an unhealthy rattle outside the library, shrouded in a rather alarming cloud of acrid smoke. The driver makes several attempts to get it to within at least touching distance of the kerb before a loud slam of the door signals to Storybrooke the arrival of its newest resident and current worst reverse parker.

Belle French. Five feet two, petite, long auburn hair, Australian, and unafraid of a challenge.

From behind a shutter in the pawnshop, Gold watches with a grim smile as she struggles to extract from the backseat of her boneshaker a box that is almost the same size as her. What on earth has she got in there, he wonders to himself. The complete works of Charles Dickens?

He has, rather unexpectedly, enjoyed the last five weeks, during which he has tormented his soon-to-be tenant (not that she knows that particular fact just yet) with the fine print in both her employment and tenant’s agreements (his advice that ‘the devil’s in the detail dearie’ had resulted in a particularly terse exchange of letters). He’s also been amused by how each revision of the contracts has been returned to him with sections heavily scored through, accompanied by comments in thick black ink filling the margins. And when she’d run out of space thanks to her ridiculously over-the-top handwriting (so many flourishes), the scrawl had been replaced by post-it notes and an explanatory code. Green for “Minor amendments required.” Orange for “This needs completely rewriting". And flourescent pink for “Over my dead body.” Which, he thinks rather wistfully, with one phone call could have been arranged. 

That last flurry of extremely brusque messages had been over the “No overnight visitors” clause in the rental agreement, which he’d included (partly at least) to test whether or not she is someone who reads to the end of a document or gives up half way through the second page. Somehow he’d suspected Miss French to be more likely to spend her weekends reading than hosting wild parties but better to be safe than sorry. It had turned out, not to his great surprise, that she was in fact extremely thorough if her one very succinct and not terribly polite sentence on that paragraph was anything to go by. 

Checkmate.

Fine. He’d returned the draft with that paragraph removed and a post-it note of his own that read “Very well. But be it on your own head if you contravene the noise pollution laws.”

And she’d replied. Or rather she’d just sent back the note, torn into tiny pink pieces that scattered across his kitchen counter like confetti.

A second peek through the window. The pavement is now covered in boxes in assorted shapes and sizes, most of them bulging at the seams. It seems Miss French does not believe in travelling light. Gold tugs down the sleeves of his jacket, makes sure his cufflinks are straight and retrieves his sunglasses from the drawer beneath his counter. It’s going to be another glorious day.

00000

Belle is beginning to wish she’d taken a more robust approach to decluttering her apartment in Boston. She’s been up since the crack of dawn and loading up and driving Bertha is never much fun. It’s hot, she’s bothered and now she’s got to lug about ten boxes of mainly books up to her new place. And these are just the ‘essentials’ as the majority of her belongings are arriving tomorrow in the back of a van.

She’d agreed to meet the so far unnamed landlord at 10 o’clock sharp to carry out an inventory and Belle fervently hopes he doesn’t keep her waiting much longer given how much she has to do this weekend before taking up the reins of the library on Monday. She’d been assured by Gold in one of his many (often unwanted and pretty much always deeply irritating) communications that the place had been professionally cleaned.

This in fact was one of the very few pieces of information from Gold that had actually been of use, making a pleasant change from his usual snide comments set out in the world’s tiniest handwriting that made her think crossly of drunken spiders every time she had to squint while holding the contract up to the light to better make out what insult he’d chosen to throw her way. How she hadn’t given into her desire to punch him on his long, pointy nose is beyond her but she thinks she probably deserves a medal, swiftly followed by a nice glass of chilled white wine.

A cough behind her brings Belle back to the present. Turning, she sees Mr Gold leaning on his cane, a pair of sunglasses concealing his eyes and wearing yet another of his perfectly pressed suits, despite the temperature soaring into the nineties.

“You!” Belle can’t help exclaiming.

“As you so correctly observe, me,” he replies. Sardonic son of a bitch.

Belle glowers at him. “I meant, what are you doing here?”

Gold smiles, his crooked teeth on display, like a ragged-toothed shark.

“Then you should have phrased that statement as a question,” he reprimands her, sleek and shiny, and dramatically pulls back his sleeve to make a show of studying his watch. “I believe we agreed we would meet here at ten o’clock. So here I am.”

“You?” Belle repeats, feeling as if her day has taken an unpleasant swerve towards a precipitous drop into hell. “You’re my landlord.”

“Let’s hope that acute mind of yours is sharper than your observation skills.” 

Belle is aware that she’s gaping unattractively but she’s momentarily at a loss for words, or at least words that won’t have her arrested for verbal assault. As she stands silently shooting daggers at him, Gold smirks evilly. “Well, you may have time to stand around gawping but I’d like to remind you that I am a busy man, so shall we?” 

“You can’t be my landlord.” 

Belle is unable to move her thoughts on from the disaster that’s threatening to drown her, like a quicksand. Gold takes off his glasses and despite the bright sunlight, his eyes are black, flat and completely unreadable. But there’s no mistaking the edge to his voice when he next speaks.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you Miss French, but I assure you I am. Now we can stand here all day in this heat debating the unarguable or I could show you to your new accommodation.”

Belle looks around her wildly, as if looking for someone to pop out from behind a bush to shout 'Surprise. Gotcha' but finally accepts the cards that fate has seen fit to deal her. Her gaze settles on her boxes. “I can’t just leave these here on the street,” she protests, still trying to buy herself some time.

Gold gives a languid wave in the direction of the pawnshop and a man who must be at least seven feet tall suddenly appears from the alley that runs along the side of it. He comes to a halt next to his – boss? – and Belle can’t help but be amused by how he towers over Gold. Little and Large indeed.

“Dove can help you with those, Miss French. Now, shall we?” Before Belle has time to reply Gold has conjured a bunch of keys out of nowhere and after unlocking the library doors disappears inside, so fighting down the frown she’s currently wearing she turns to Dove and offers him an apologetic smile. About to warn him about how heavy the boxes are, he hefts two into his arms as if they weigh no more than a blue jay and shoots her a disarmingly shy smile. “I’ll be right behind you,” he rumbles. “You go on ahead.”

No longer able to delay the inevitable, Belle nods her assent and then, taking a deep breath, steps across the library threshold. And just like that she forgets Gold and how she’d like to remove each of his crooked teeth without the use of anaesthetic because Belle is inside her new place of work and it’s amazing. It’s so much bigger than she’d imagined. High ceilinged. A wonderful curved front desk that looks as if with a good polish the wood will glow. A parquet floor that could also do with a good polish but most definitely has potential. And best of all, space. Space to put in banks of reading desks and squishy armchairs, space to hold workshops and reading groups. It’s perfect. Completely and utterly perfect.

She could spend the next hour here dreaming but Belle spots a narrow spiral staircase off to the left and can hear the faint echo of a door being opened. Well, this must lead to her new home. Butterflies in her stomach, she heads upwards. The stairwell is cool and dark when Belle trails her hand along the wall, making her think of magic and castles and she really hopes she’s going to love her apartment because despite everything (well, actually, just Gold) she has a good feeling about this. 

Up and up she goes, the stairwell narrowing even further the higher she climbs, and then there he is, standing in a doorway, waiting patiently for her, keys twirling between his thumb and forefinger. When he sees Belle, he stands to one side and with a mock bow, gestures for her to go inside. Admiring the bottle green door with its brass letterbox and door knocker in the shape of a lion she offers him a small curtsey in return and then turns to go through the doorway.

And – just like that - she’s in love. Belle turns to grin at Gold, forgetting her displeasure in discovering that he’s her landlord and how rude and ill-mannered he is. She’s always wanted to live in a turret and now that dream has come true. The apartment is octagonal in shape. The living room, like the library below, has a wooden floor and now she knows how the parquet flooring can and should look. There are sash windows with seating beneath where she can curl up against velvet cushions and read on wild and stormy evenings. Belle can see through to a kitchen that looks well-appointed, which is fantastic because she loves cooking and having people over to eat her food, and on the other side there’s a door that must lead through to a bathroom and bedroom.

As agreed in the contract, it’s semi-furnished, which means there’s an aubergine-coloured sofa and matching armchair that look soft and comfortable, and built in shelves lining two of the walls which she won’t have any difficulty in filling with her books and knickknacks. Heavy curtains hang down to the floor, and the walls are a warmer shade of slate grey, toning with them perfectly. Whoever's decorated this has a real sense of style, Belle thinks.

“Do you mind if I check the bedroom and bathroom?” she asks and on Gold waving her along, Belle speeds across the room, heels clacking. The bathroom is smallish but large enough for a bath and she loves the black and white floor tiles, and the bedroom is just the right size for her; two dark wood wardrobes, a chest of drawers and a double bed, with the walls painted a duck blue.

Yes, she could definitely make this feel like home.

“Is everything to your satisfaction?” Gold asks, and Belle spins round, having forgotten for the moment he’s still there, so caught up in her thoughts on how she’ll display her books and where her 1950’s coffee table should sit.

“I love it,” she tells him, beaming. “It’s perfect, really it is. Thank you.”

For a moment or two he says nothing, just watching Belle until she has to break eye contact and instead study the floor with avid interest. She’s not sure how a man like him - who’s short in stature and short on words, with hair that’s being worn just a little too long for a man in his forties (or maybe even fifties) and uses a cane - can get under her skin the way he does. It's not even as if he's particularly attractive, with those terrible teeth and those cold black eyes. And yet. And yet...

Gold interrupts her thoughts. “Well in that case shall we conduct the inventory and then I can leave you to unpack,” he says, tone formal, and produces a couple of sheets of A4 paper and a silver fountain pen from an inside pocket. “Shall we start with the living room?” 

Belle pulls herself together. The faster they do this, the sooner he’s out from underneath her feet and she’ll be able to get herself settled.

00000

It’s coming up to lunch time and now that the first-day nerves have begun to wear off, Belle’s found herself starting to relax a little and enjoying being mistress of her own domain. It had been agreed with the mayor that Belle could have two weeks to organise the library before opening to the public. A cleaning service is arriving on Wednesday to carry out a full deep clean, giving Belle two days to map out how she wants the books and public spaces to be laid out, but she’s itching to attack the front desk which is crying out for a clean and polish.

Belle normally likes to wear dresses or skirts accessorised with sheer blouses but because she knows she’s going to end up covered in dust by the end the day and she’s not expecting callers she’s in far more casual clothing than usual; black cotton cut offs and an old faded blue button down, with her long hair tied up in a messy bun.

Glancing at her watch she decides she’s got about another half an hour before she can treat herself to a quick bite to eat which gives her time to wash down the top of the counter. The tiny kitchen area is at the back of the main library which is where she goes to fill a bowl with warm water and detergent, first making sure the heavy wooden front door is locked. Singing tunelessly while waiting for the water to heat sufficiently, she neither hears the knock on the main door nor the subsequent rattle of keys as it’s opened.

The bowl is now filled to the brim so when the sharp rap on the glass pane rings out it makes her jump so badly that the water sloshes over the side to drench the front of her shirt. Swearing under her breath, she spins round, only to see Mr Gold standing in the doorway with a look on his face that is almost sheepish, wearing yet another of those perfect suits, this one navy and pinstriped, with a polka dot pocket square that is calling out to be grabbed and used to blow her nose.

His face would be a picture.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,” Gold starts to say but then he falters and Belle sees his eyes drop down from her face to somewhere around her stomach and then quickly back up. 

“Um…” Gold is unusually lost for words and Belle can see a faint blush rising along his cheeks. The tip of his tongue wets his lips and she wonders what on earth is wrong with the man.

“What?” she says sharply. “Out with it, man, can’t you see I’m busy?”

Gold points a long, slim finger at Belle’s chest. “You – uh – your shirt. It’s – well, it’s rather wet.”

Belle’s as quick as a flash because she hasn’t forgotten their little exchange on the pavement. “Well ten out of ten for that, so well done you.” Gold bridles. “It’s good at least to discover that your observation skills are somewhat stronger than your ability to construct a whole sentence.” She’s pleased by the flare of irritation in his eyes that tells her that the jibe has hit a nerve. She hopes it hurt.

“If you’d be so kind as to let me finish, what I meant was, Miss French, is that the water has made your shirt somewhat translucent and that you might want to find something – drier – to change into.” Gold sounds waspish so whatever it was that was bothering him he’s managed to shake off. More’s the pity. She prefers him tongue-tied.

Belle glances down to see what he’s making a fuss about and squeals in horror. Not only is her shirt completely see-through but it’s also only too apparent that she’d foregone wearing a bra this morning. Her nipples are clearly visible and horribly pert, thanks to the wet, cold cotton clinging to every bit of her skin. 

“Bloody hell,” she says, and turns around to grab the bowl and hold it protectively to her chest before spinning back to face Gold. “You could have told me instead of standing there getting an eyeful.”

“I did try,” Gold deadpans, having somehow regained both his equilibrium and the upper hand. “But you were more focused on scoring points off me so…”

She snorts. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Gold?”

His reply is said in tones so icy cold it sends a shiver down Belle’s spine. “It’s Mister Gold. And I merely wanted to check to make sure you had everything you need.” He pauses, and then says in a faux thoughtful voice, “although I wonder if before you formally open up the library, we should perhaps revisit the section of your employment contract that covers the dress code for public service employees.” 

Another pause, a small quirk of his right eyebrow. “I hadn’t at the time of drafting deemed it necessary to include a sentence on how the presence of undergarments is at all time compulsory but…” and in a blink and you miss it moment, he allows his gaze to drop before it again meets a pair of furious blue eyes, “…it seems this may have been a serious oversight on my part.”

Belle’s so angry she imagines there might be steam pouring out of her ears. Sanctimonious bastard. She clenches her jaw in an effort to stop a tirade of furious words spilling from her mouth.

“Careful there, Miss French, grinding your teeth is a terrible habit and so costly.” Eyes dancing, Gold leans in on his cane. “If you’d like to be pointed in the direction of an excellent lingerie store, I’m sure Miss Lucas will be more than happy to advise.” He runs a finger along the top of the door frame and examines it. “Well this place won’t clean itself so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be sure to let Madam Mayor know you’re already making your mark on the place.”

Belle watches him limp out of the kitchen and a few moments later hears the door slam shut. 

She hates him, she really does.


	5. Chapter 5

Gold glares so hotly at the gold-embossed invitation he’s holding it’s a miracle it doesn’t instantaneously turn into a pile of ash.

Tossing it down on his kitchen table, he raises his eyes to the heavens, praying for deliverance. Because this is all he needs - Regina’s latest fundraising effort (fancy fucking dress) which will no doubt require him to play nice with the great and good of Storybrooke and Boston. Tepid champagne, mediocre canapes and dull conversation which never fails to put him in a dark mood. ‘Come as Puck’ indeed. No fucking chance. 

Gold takes a sip of his black coffee and eyes the offending card again before running his hands through his hair.

Deep down he knows Regina is doing the right thing. The last event raised more than $100,000 to support some much needed regeneration around the harbour but this hadn’t stopped him from resenting how he’d ended up being one of the prizes sold at the charity auction and having to spend an interminable evening in the company of Regina’s crazed sister, requiring him to be on high alert to counteract any attempt to grope his thighs while at the same time trying to block out the worst of her grating voice.

It had been exhausting and not even the pain killers and a healthy measure of scotch he’d gulped down on arriving home blessedly unharmed had managed to ease his headache. Not that Regina had cared, evil witch that she is. She’d simply texted him the morning after enquiring with faux interest as to how the ‘date’ had gone.

Scratch witch. Evil bitch more like.

He bites into his toast and marmalade, chewing carefully.

Fuck it. If he doesn’t send an RSVP Regina will only hound him until he caves in so best to get it over and done with. He extracts from an inner pocket of his suit jacket his favourite fountain pen – sleek and solid silver – and enjoys the weight of it in the palm of his hand before he scrawls a single sentence on the back of the invitation.

‘I’d rather gouge out my eyes with a rusty spoon’

Underlined three times.

Let her make of that what she will, he thinks darkly, before pushing the chair out and getting to his feet. He has better things to be doing with his time than letting the Mayor get under his skin. He blows gently on the ink until he’s confident it won’t smudge – or even worse, stain the silk lining of his coat – and tucks the card away along with his pen.

00000

Across town, Belle’s sitting up at the counter in Granny’s, having pancakes and occupied in discussing with Ruby the invitation to the gala (A Midsummer’s Dream is one of her favourite plays), conscious that her belly is fluttering as though it’s been filled with butterflies. 

It’s a long time since she’s attended an event of this scale and she’s not sure she has anything in her wardrobe that’s suitable. She tells Ruby this and is not sure whether the gleam in her friend’s eyes is something she should be alarmed by.

“You’ve got three weeks so plenty of time to go dress shopping. How about you and me hit up the shops at the weekend?” Ruby asks between mouthfuls of blueberry muffin. Not for the first time Belle wonders how Ruby manages to stay stick thin when her diet comprises solely of fast food and sugary confectionary. And coke.

“Great, yeah. I’m gonna need some shoes as well.”

“Oh, I know just the place, trust me,” Ruby replies. “It’ll be fun. And there’s a couple of great places for lunch and a cool cocktail bar for afterwards to celebrate all your purchases.”

Belle still can’t quite believe how lucky she is to have Ruby as a friend. They’re polar opposites yet somehow they just click, and through Ruby, Belle’s got to know Mary Margaret, Emma and Ashley, and their Friday night drinks are often the highlight of her week.

“Who else do you think’s been invited?” 

“Well, let’s see now. All the town hall officials, as a courtesy. Boring. Loads of corporate types but they bring in the money and Regina loves schmoozing them but there’ll also be a fair number of charities that do international work so good for building up links with Asia and Europe. A few creative types – designers, artists. And the rest are really involved in urban regeneration – architects, engineers, you know the sort.”

Ruby eyes Belle, who’s chewing her lower lip, and leans over to gently tap her friend on the arm. “Honestly though, these things are always good fun once the drinks start flowing. And nobody can accuse Regina of skimping on the champagne or of being a bad host. So don’t let it bother you that you won’t know many people there – and besides I’ll be around to keep an eye on you.”

Belle throws her a small smile. She had been worrying about not knowing anyone but hearing this reassures her that it’ll be fine. 

“Oh, and if our luck’s in, Regina might run another charity auction.” Ruby pauses, eyes gleaming at the memory of it. “You should have seen Gold’s face. It was a picture when Regina called him up as the final lot of the evening. And that was before Zelena won the bid. Oh my God, he was so angry I swear there was steam pouring out of his ears. Even Regina was a little scared for a moment there.”

Belle stares at Ruby. “Gold goes to these events?” She’s conscious that there’s something fluttering treacherously in her belly.

Ruby scoffs. “Only very reluctantly. He’s usually to be found lurking behind the flower displays, glowering evilly and just daring people to even think about coming over to speak to him. He only attends because Regina knows where he lives and suspects she wouldn’t be beyond turning up on his doorstep and forcibly dragging him, screaming and kicking, along.”

Ruby chews ruminatively. “And, of course this time Regina can dangle in front of him the threat of setting Zelena on him, so that should pretty much guarantee his attendance.”

Belle huffs out a small laugh before a dry cough behind her makes her startle.

“Something amusing you this morning, Miss French?”

How Gold manages to be that quiet is one of life’s mysteries.

Not bothering to wait for a reply he turns his attention to Granny. “A black coffee please. And no, I don’t want maple syrup in it. Or – what was it last week – oh yes…” Gold shudders and Belle wants to roll her eyes at what a drama queen he is. “...spiced pumpkin.”

Granny throws a look his way that would make most people quake in their boots but Gold simply stands there, leaning on his cane, completely impervious to the dagger looks, a look of complete disinterest on his face.

“When you’re ready,” he adds. Ruby nudges Belle and she jostles her friend back, willing her to stay quiet. The silence grows until Granny slams a cup down in front of Gold, small splashes of hot liquid staining the counter.

Gold quirks an eyebrow and carefully picks his drink up. “You want to be more careful there. After all, you wouldn’t want a customer to sue you for third degree burns.” He nods at Ruby (“Ms Lucas”) on his way out, but it doesn’t go unnoticed that he’s careful to not make eye contact with Belle when he bids her his usual good day.

Ruby nudges Belle. “So, what’s going on between you and the Dragon King then? And don’t try and deny it, you could cut the tension with a knife.” She waggles her eyebrows, nose scenting a potential source of gossip.

Belle sighs. “That’s the whole point, Rubes. There is absolutely nothing ‘going on’, as you put it, between us. Our meetings are business-like, nothing more, nothing less. He turns up, looking like a mobster in one of those thousand dollar suits of his, takes my money and leaves. End of story.”

Ruby hums. “But you’d like there to be more to it, huh?”

Belle spins on her stool to look at her friend. “What? No…he’s mean and rude and…” 

She’s interrupted. “Rich. And handsome if you like your men older, scrawny and slightly scary…”

“Well I don’t. He’s really not my type at all.” Belle’s aware that she sounds as if she’s protesting too much but really, Ruby has completely got the wrong end of the stick here and it’s important she understands just how incompatible Belle and Gold are. “Besides, as if I’d like someone just because they had money and lived in a huge house.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re both whip smart. You’re both tiny people. I mean, how tall is Gold. He’s barely pushing five feet seven for all his ridiculous posturing. When Gold lets his guard down he can be quite funny if you like humour that’s bone dry. And for an Australian you’re pretty witty.”

“Damned with faint praise. Thanks, Rubes.”

Ruby smiles. “I aim to please.” She pauses. “But seriously, I know you were mad with him after the library fiasco…” Belle starts to speak but Ruby talks over her. “…and you had every right to be, but you know, if you look a little deeper, I think Gold was trying to flirt with you…I mean why else would he comment about your underwear and suggest you get yourself some new lingerie. That’s not a man who’s completely disinterested, mark my words.”

Belle can feel her face heat. She’d lain awake in bed the night of that exchange alternating between fantasising about landing Gold with a sexual harassment charge and imagining his face if she showed up at his shop wearing nothing more than silk stockings, suspenders, lacy bra and panties, and asking him if her new attire met with his satisfaction. She’d finally fallen asleep after bringing herself off to the image of Gold telling her it very much did so, pushing her up against the glass counter, his cock hard against her thigh, biting that sweet spot between her neck and her collarbone hard enough to leave a bruise, holding her down with one hand while slipping the other between her legs, curling first one, then two of his long fingers inside her until she’d cried out in pleasure.

She’s not sure when Gold had gone from being an obnoxious imp to someone who featured in her fantasies and could make her come harder and faster than was legal. The next time she’d seen Gold she’d felt her face flushing but he’d been his usual distant and remote self so normal service had been resumed. She hadn’t been sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

This conversation with Ruby has unsettled her; it’s safer to keep Gold at a distance, Belle thinks, but before she can say this, there’s a rat-a-tat rap on the diner’s door. Henry Mills, offering her a stay of execution, at least until Friday drinks. 

“I have to dash, Rubes, it’s nearly nine o’clock and mustn’t keep the Mayor’s son waiting.” Belle pecks Ruby on the cheek. “I’ll see you Friday, seven o’clock, as usual.”

“Sure, see ya,” Ruby replies and watches as Belle and Henry greet each other before dashing across the street. There’s more to this ‘thing’ with Gold, Ruby is sure, but it can wait until Belle’s had a couple of vodka martinis at the Rabbit Hole because then she’ll be singing like a canary.

00000

There’s a lull in footfall around a quarter to four. Too late for people popping in during their lunch break and schools are not out yet. Belle is making the most of her down time by planning out the writers and themes for her ‘Books of the Month’ displays. July is ‘Animals in Literature,’ because schools will finish for the summer soon so she needs something that’s going to appeal to both children and their parents. She’s busy raking through a couple of crates when she hears the door open, followed by the sharp crack of stilettos on wooden flooring. And a strong perfume. 

Regina.

Belle stands up and dusts her hands down the front of her skirt.

“Madam Mayor, this is a surprise.” Belle’s careful around Regina, finding her dark eyes hard to read. The mayor has never given her cause for concern but better to be safe than sorry.

“Don’t let me disturb you, I was just passing and thought I’d pop in to see how you’re settling in.” Regina looks around her, sharp and alert, not missing a trick before turning her attention to the librarian. “Well, the place is almost unrecognisable, Miss French. Congratulations.”

Belle knows praise from Regina is hard won so she can’t help the pride she feels from those words curling in her toes and rising up until it settles in her stomach, creating a warm glow. 

“Thank you. There’s still some way to go – repairing the storage rooms out the back is a priority and shoring up the roof before the summer storms arrive is essential – but yes, the front library is shaping up well and membership has almost doubled in the last month.”

Regina eyes Belle. “Well, as you know the summer gala is only three weeks away and if it’s anywhere near as successful as last year’s effort, then I expect to be able to allocate significant extra funds to the library in the third quarter. I do so hope you will be able to attend.”

Belle’s eyes twinkle. “Oh, yes, thank you for the invitation. I’m really looking forward to it although I need to work on my costume.” She hesitates, suddenly tempted to see if she can find out whether the auction of last year will be revisited. “I understand that last year you raised a huge amount of money through a charity auction. Are you planning to do the same this time?”

Regina laughs; it’s surprisingly warm and for the first time Belle can see why Ruby enjoys working in the mayor’s office. “Now that would be telling!” She pauses. “I assume my assistant told you about Gold being bought by my sister, did she?” 

Belle nods, hoping she hasn’t got Ruby into any trouble.

“Miss French, believe me when I tell you that his face was an absolute picture.” She leans in and Belle’s enveloped in her scent, spicy and rich, as Regina whispers, “It really was worth every penny.” 

She laughs at Belle’s gasp. “Well, I shan’t keep you any longer Miss French. I look forward to seeing what costume you come up with. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me. Good day.”

Belle watches the mayor sashay out of the building, still not quite able to process what she’s heard before letting out a tiny giggle of disbelief. Oh my god. Regina stitched up Gold.

Priceless.

000000

It’s close to ten o’clock and the girls’ table is littered with empty cocktail glasses, paper parasols and used straws. Belle is leaning her head on Ruby’s shoulder, content to listen to the others chatting about this and that, occasionally taking a sip of her wine. Her head is buzzing pleasantly.

“You should ask him out,” Mary Margaret says. Belle doesn’t even have to ask who ‘he’ is because MM’s only already mentioned this about fifty times tonight. Ruby nudges Belle in the ribs, making her giggle.

“She’s talking sense. You should listen to her.”

“Ridiklus,” Belle slurs.

“We’ve seen the way you dance around each other,” Emma grins. “Seriously. All this pretending to hate each other. Thin line and all that.” She brings the bottle of beer to her lips to hide her smirk when Belle starts to deny it.

“Seriously, Gold hasn’t spoken to anyone as much as he speaks to you,” Ruby says. “He barely acknowledges me yet he must spend half his time in and out of Regina’s office the two of them plotting god knows what.”

The others nod enthusiastically. “Abso-bloody-lutely.” “Too right, you tell her Ruby.”

“But it’s never a quality conversation,” Belle whines. “It’s mainly him checking up on me to make sure I’m not holding illegal raves in my front room or having gentlemen friends to stay.”

A cheer goes up around the table and Emma raises her bottle. “To gentlemen callers.” They happily clink glasses and whoop. “Right, whose turn is it to get the next round in?”

It turns out it’s Belle’s, and she blinks blearily as orders are shouted at her. Another beer for Emma, a margarita (heavy on the tequila) for Mary Margaret and a double vodka, neat, for Ruby. Grumbling to herself she reaches for her purse and then pushes her way through the crowd to the bar.

It’s Nottingham serving. Belle can’t stand him and the way he thinks it’s appropriate to leer at her and make lewd comments. Sure enough, he winks at her and says “Another round for the table?” As Belle’s about to reply someone steps up to stand next to her and Nottingham fills the silence with yet another unwanted attempt to ask her out. “Unless I can interest you in something else.”

Belle decides to play along with the smarmy arse. “Depends. What’s on offer?”

Nottingham blinks, not expecting in a million years to have his bluff called, and Belle grins.

“If you don’t want to find out what it feels like to be impaled on the end of my cane, I suggest you leave the lady alone.”

Belle doesn’t need to turn her head to know who it is who’s just spoken. Nobody growls quite the way Gold does. A shiver of something that might be excitement makes her spine tingle as Nottingham’s confident smile fades away to be replaced with a look of alarm.

“No need to be hasty, Mr Gold. It was just a bit of friendly banter. I’ll just – er – go and pick up the rent.”

While the barkeep is busying himself sorting out the cash for the month, Gold watching every move he makes, Belle surreptitiously turns around to try and catch the girls’ eyes only to see the three of them giving her less than subtle thumbs-up. Hastily she turns back before Gold notices them.

“You seem to be enjoying your evening Miss French” Gold comments, politely enough, once a fat roll of notes is placed in front of him. She tries to analyse the statement in search of a hidden meaning but decides eventually to take it at face value. 

“Oh, I am, Mr Gold. I like to be able to let my hair down once in a while.”

He scrutinises her, and under his dark gaze heat rises in her belly. “Well in that case you seem to be doing an excellent job.” Even with five generous glasses of white wine inside her, Belle is sure this time that his response is laced with a healthy dose of sarcasm and the alcohol makes her feel confident enough to try and play him at his own game. 

“Maybe you should try it some time. Removing that stick that’s stuck so far up your arse. Then you might actually have a good time.”

To her surprise, instead of looking angry there’s a small genuine smile and Belle thinks suddenly how good looking he is when he allows himself to show some warmth. Gold leans in to whisper in Belle’s ear and his breath is warm as it slides over her cheek. “You’re very bold when you’ve had a drink, Miss French. It suits you” And then he straightens up, nodding at Nottingham before putting the rent money in his coat pocket. He gestures to where Ruby, Mary Margaret and Emma are collapsed in a drunken, giggling heap. “Put the next round of drinks for that table over there on my tab.”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening Miss French,” he says and turns to leave, only to have Belle tugging at his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks.

“Thank you,” Belle murmurs. “For earlier. With Nottingham. He doesn’t like to take ‘no’ for an answer so…”

“It’s no matter, dearie,” Gold interrupts. “Enjoy the rest of your evening and I trust you can get home safely.”

She nods her thanks, trying to shake off a sense of disappointment that he’d reverted to being his usual aloof self when making his goodbyes while appreciating how good a well-cut suit can look on a man as he makes his way to the entrance - people quick to get out of his path - before weaving her way back to where the girls are waiting for her, drinks in hand. No doubt an in-depth grilling awaits her.

It’s another two hours before Belle calls it quits so it’s well past midnight. Mary Margaret has been snoozing quietly for the last thirty minutes, Ruby’s playing pool with Killian Jones which means Emma’s occupied with constantly sending him dagger looks. Belle’s drunk more tonight than she has in the last six months and it’s time to wend her way home. She’s just in the process of collecting her belongings when a shadow looms in front of her. Looking up, she’s surprised to see Dove, Gold’s sidekick, standing there.

“Miss French, I’ve been asked to make sure you get home safely.”

She squints owlishly at him. “What? I only live across the street.”

He replies, patiently. “Mr Gold. He wanted me to see you back to the apartment. At this time of night you never know who might be around.” Belle can’t help but notice that as Dove says this, he looks across at Jones and Nottingham. Maybe he has a point.

She smiles up at the giant of a man. “It’s very kind of you, I do appreciate it.” Dove smiles back. “In that case, Miss, after you,” and together they leave the Rabbit Hole. Five minutes later, Belle’s lying on her sofa with a large glass of water by her side, soft gusts of warm summer air coming in through the open windows, wiggling her toes and generally feeling rather content.

Who’d have thought that Gold would end up being her hero, not once but twice in one evening. Maybe, she ponders, it’s time to offer him an olive branch.


	6. Chapter 6

Gold eyes the brown paper bag and coffee cup with grave suspicion. There are orangey-brown stains around the lid that have no place being anywhere near a black Americano.

“If this is about the other night, it was Dove's idea” he starts to say, but Belle is leaning in to whisper across the shop counter in confiding tones that it’s a peace offering because perhaps they’ve got off on the wrong footing so maybe they could start over and the rest of his sentence is never completed because how did he not notice how her eyes could sparkle.

Belle continues to chat away, happily unaware of the direction of Gold’s thoughts. “So - I thought you might appreciate this.” And she delicately nudges the cup towards him. A bubble of something that is most definitely not black coffee appears in the space where a wooden stirrer should go and he only just refrains from shuddering.

“Well. That’s – most unnecessary...” he murmurs. Under her bright gaze, heart sinking, he takes a tentative sip. Words fail him. It’s truly an abomination, and a crime against pumpkins. 

“Hmm” is the best he can come up with.” The roof of his mouth feels as though it has been coated in a layer of liquid sugar and if he listens carefully, yes that’s the sound of his teeth starting to rot. Gold strives for something positive to say. “Most – unusual. Granny is outdoing herself on the creativity front.” He’s not sure he’s quite met his self-imposed brief but the smile that lights up Belle’s face tells him he’s just about got away with it.

“And don’t forget the muffin.”

Granny’s muffins are a legend in their own time, mainly because even Henry Mills, who never knowingly turns down a sugary confection, has advised Gold to steer clear. And he’s eight years old. 

“Indeed I won’t. I look forward to having it with my afternoon beverage.”

Belle looks slightly askance at this but whether it’s his delaying tactics or the use of ‘beverage’ that’s displeased her, he’s not sure. Keen to avert a request for clarification Gold creates a diversion. 

“So apart from your peace offering, which I assure you, was really not required, is there anything else I can help you with this morning?”

Belle fishes around in the depths of her handbag and digs out a packet of tissues, sun screen, two lipsticks, a wrinkly apple and two paperbacks before placing these on the counter and continuing to mine for what he assumes are precious stones. He takes advantage of her focus on other things to sneak a quick glance at the book covers, curiosity getting the better of him. A slim anthology of Pope’s poetry and Albert Camus’ The Stranger. Nothing like a dose of existentialism to get you going in the morning, he muses to himself.

“Aha. Found it,” Belle exclaims triumphantly and straightens up, clutching her prize. Gold immediately recognises the over-the-top stationery because it’s identical to the one he’d received. He hopes the cost of the invitations have been met out of the mayor’s personal budget and makes a mental note to request a review of her last quarter’s financial outgoings. “So, I’ve been invited to Regina’s summer gala and...” Belle pauses. “Well, I must confess I’m finding the prospect of choosing a costume rather daunting.” She halts again and her cheeks take on a faint rosy glow that Gold finds rather fetching. “Mary Margaret thought you might have some vintage dresses in stock that would be within my price range. I don’t – uh – want to spend too much on a one-off outfit I’m unlikely to ever wear again.”

Gold knows only too well what Belle’s salary is. It’s not terrible but well, she is a public servant and relatively inexperienced so is at the bottom of the pay scale. 

“I’m sure we can find something that meets your budget. But first, who are you going as?” 

“Oh, I wasn’t given a specific role, the invitation just said it was a Midsummer Night’s Dream theme which might make things a little easier. Something summery and floaty?”

Gold ushers Belle through the narrow doorway into his workshop. At the back are several rails of clothes, dating back as far as the early twentieth century; day frocks, capes, evening gowns, delicate lace, vibrant silk, rich velvet. 

“Take a seat, Miss French,” he says and watches as Belle curls herself into a well-worn leather armchair, looking as if she belongs there. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Familiar with his stock, he selects a small number of dresses that he thinks won’t swamp or bankrupt the diminutive librarian and turns around to show her.

“These might be suitable,” he suggests, handing them over. Belle runs her hands over the fabric and then looks up with a brilliant smile.

“They’re stunning. Can I try them on here or do you want me to take them away with me?”

“No, you can try them here, if you wish. I’ll – er – I’ll leave you to it. Come through when you’re ready if you’d like a second opinion.”

He nods formally at her, retrieves his cane and pushes the curtain to one side. Once safely in the shop he raises his eyes to the heavens. Has he completely taken leave of his senses, he wonders. One minute they’re happily snarling insults at each other, the next he’s practically inviting her to get naked in his shop.

Gold seats himself on a stool and picks up a delicate necklace with a broken diamond clasp he’s been meaning to repair for weeks, trying to close his ears to the sound of a zip being undone and the rustle of fabric. He must not think about Miss French stripping down to her underwear, he must not think about what she might look like clad in just a bra and panties. He must not. He absolutely must not. He is a man in his fifties, a business man. A serious man. Not the sort of man who finds young, intelligent, beautiful women attractive.

With little warning, the curtain is pulled to one side. “So, what do you think then?” Belle trips across the room to stand in front of Gold before pirouetting on the spot. His mouth goes dry because to describe Belle as beautiful would be doing her a serious injustice.

She’s wearing a layered sleeveless dress that falls to just below her knees in a pale blue silk, the bodice covered in silver beading. It shows off her toned arms and slim calves, as well as emphasising her tiny waist. It’s – she’s exquisite.

Belle has to repeat her question before Gold realises she’s expecting a response.

“You look – tolerable, Miss French.”

She laughs. “I think from you that’s quite the compliment, Mr Gold.” She walks over to a full-length mirror to study her reflection, the fabric shimmering as it catches the light. “It’s very lovely. But...” and she examines the price writing in Gold’s neat handwriting, her face falling, “…a little out of my price range so I should probably try on the other dress you pulled out, if you’re not too busy.”

Gold dismisses the thought with an elegant wave. “I don’t have anything pressing to do this morning,” he assures her. “So off you go.”

Shooing Belle away until she vanishes behind the curtain with a light giggle he turns the pendant over in his hands, admiring the faceted amethyst and the tiny pearls that surround it. Art Deco, made in France around 1930; it’s a nice piece. He should be able to sell it for a decent sum if he can only mend the fastening. He picks up his magnifying glass and peers through it to see what work needs to be carried out.

“Nearly with you,” Belle sings out. “I’m not sure it’s quite right though.” A few seconds later and she steps towards him before turning around. “You couldn’t – uh – help with the zip, could you?” 

Gold swallows hard. The dress is only partly done up, revealing creamy skin dotted with the tiniest little freckles. For a moment, he is filled with the strongest urge to lean forward and kiss each one of them, to discover how warm her back is but then realises his hand is hovering and she must be wondering what on earth he’s doing so he tugs the zip up, concealing inch by inch her skin. Her hair is hanging loose so he has to pull it to one side and he can smell the citrus tang of her shampoo.

Gold can feel himself harden as the scent fills his nostrils and he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the sense of her. He takes first one then another step back, creating some greatly needed space between them. Something heavy seems to be hovering in the air and when Belle turns to show off the dress to him, her eyes seem darker than usual and she licks her lips.

“D’you like it?” she asks, running her hands down the front of the full-length gown. Careful to avoid the risk of being accused of being an ogling lecher, he throws a cursory glance in Belle’s direction. Daffodil yellow chiffon with a pattern of red and pink roses around the skirt, puffed sleeves. 

It’s also rather see-through. It seems Belle has a penchant for bows. 

His pulse speeds up. “Not sure yellow is quite your colour, dearie,” he says gruffly. 

Belle hums in agreement. “Makes me look sallow-skinned. Yeah, it’s pretty but not really what I’m after.” She sighs. “Ah well, the blue silk was much more my ‘thing’ so the search continues, I guess. Won’t be a sec.” 

She disappears again before Gold remembers she needs help with the zip but just as he opens his mouth to offer he hears the unmistakeable sound of the dress being unfastened. It must be easier to undo from the top, he reasons.

He uses the time she’s out of sight to dispose of the unwanted pumpkin latte in a handily placed plant pot (it’s not as if he’d ever liked the overly colourful glaze on it anyway) and is just placing the empty cup on the counter when Belle appears, both dresses draped over her arm. 

Gold doesn’t miss how she runs one finger across the beading of the silk dress and how her gaze lingers for a moment. Wanting suddenly to put a smile on her face, he points at the paper cup. “Thank you again for the drink.” It works.

“My pleasure Mr Gold. I hope we can be friends now.” She hastily adds a caveat. “Or at the very least, more friendly. Who knows, at this rate in about ten years’ time I might even know your first name.” Her tone is lilting, teasing.

“Oh, I doubt that very much indeed Miss French.”

She arches an eyebrow.

“Is that you throwing down the gauntlet, Alfredo?”

Belle’s not the only one who can pull off a wry expression. “You think you’re very amusing don’t you, Miss French?” She smirks. “Well, let me tell you you’re not even close. In fact, you’re so cold you’re practically in the Arctic.”

She dances over to the door and stands there, pretending to shiver. “I don’t give up that easily you know.” He doesn’t doubt it, he already knows she’s nothing if not tenacious. “And next time I’ll be much, much warmer.” He doesn’t doubt that, either.

Another pause and then Belle places her hand on the door. “Well, I expect you’ll be at the gala so we’ll have plenty of time to catch up then. I’m guessing you’re going as Bottom.” A cheeky grin and then she vanishes into the early summer sunshine.

He thinks he can still smell lemons and lime in the air.

00000

It’s eight o’clock Wednesday morning and Belle’s chatting to Ruby on the phone as she chooses the right pair of heels to go with her outfit.

“So how did the peace offering go down then?” Ruby wants to know.

“About as well as you’d think it would,” Belle replies dryly. “He hated it, I could tell; his poker face is the worst.” Ruby’s peel of laughter makes her smile. “And if I’m not very much mistaken he poured it straight in the bin as soon as my back was turned.”

“What’s next on the list to wind up the dragon king?”

Belle muses for a moment. “I’m thinking he might like a mint mocha cappuccino next.”

“You ‘think’?” Ruby sounds sceptical - as well she might.

“Oh, I know.” Belle gets to her knees to retrieve a pair of strappy sandals. “Right, so what’s the plan for the weekend then? Shopping and a bite to eat? I’ve got an idea of what I’m looking for now, which will buy us time for drinks afterwards.”

Ruby starts to reply but there’s a knock at Belle’s front door. “Can you hold on one second,” she asks when the sharp rapping continues. “I’ll be right back.”

She pads along the hallway to the door and on opening it there’s a delivery man holding a medium sized parcel. “Miss French?” he asks.

“Yup, that’s me.”

“Delivery for you. Can you just sign here please.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Belle replies but dutifully puts her signature to the document.

“Well then, it’s your lucky day,” he says and turns smartly around and walks back to his van.

“Huh. Well, alright then,” Belle murmurs and makes her back to the kitchen where she’d left the phone. She places the box down on the table and examines the address label: printed so no clues there.

“Who was it?” demands her nosy friend as soon as Belle’s apologised for keeping her waiting. 

“Delivery guy dropping off a parcel.”

“Ooh what is it. Sexy lingerie?”

Ruby really can have a one-track mind at times. 

“Nope.” Belle digs around in a drawer for a knife to slit open the box.

“Sex toys, then. Because how long has it been since you got laid?”

“None of your business, Madam.”

“That’s not what you said down the Rabbit Hole. Let’s see now, what was it you were telling us – something about…”

“Oh my God.”

Belle’s exclamation cuts off Ruby’s unwanted rehash of her pathetic love life.

“What? What is it. Is everything ok?”

Belle stares at the tissue paper, gossamer thin, through which she can see a glint of something bright and silvery.

“Oh my God.”

Ruby’s voice comes down the line, a hint of irritation underpinning it.

“So help me, Belles, spit it out, will you?”

“He’s given me the dress.”

“Who’s given you what?”

“Gold. The dress I told you about that cost about three month’s salary.”

She pulls the tissue paper to one side and gathers up the dress. Under her fingers, the silk is cool and slippery, rather like the man who’s clearly lost command of his senses if he’s sending this to her. 

A gift.

No terms attached, no conditions, no contract. 

A small card catches her eye and she snatches it up. A tiny script reads ‘A small token’ and when she flips it over she sees ‘Try not to get pumpkin stains on it, AG’

Something hot and slippery coils in Belle’s belly.

000000

Gold has just set out the contents of a pocket watch on a clean cloth in anticipation of a quiet morning tinkering with them when he hears the door open and close with considerable vigour. If he has to tell David Nolan just one more time about slamming it shut, he’ll…”

“Mr Gold.”

Ah, well that didn’t take long. He’s not surprised that Belle is returning the dress, it was really a rather over-the-top gesture brought about by that third glass of his excellent single malt and if he’d been stone cold sober, he’d never have come up with the crazy idea that Miss French might willingly accept such a gift from him.

Sighing and conscious his heart has sunk into his boots, he slowly makes his way through to the shop but instead of being greeted by a dark thundercloud of a human being, Belle is wearing a shy, sweet smile and carrying….

Oh sweet Jesus.

It’s an oversized cup of something he fervently prays is not coffee. Unless it's black and made from blue mountain beans.

Belle holds it out to him, still beaming, and he gingerly accepts the paper cup. On its side he sees ‘Algernon’ written in black felt tip pen. He wonders darkly what horrors lurk within. He suspects that peppermint might be in the mix. He hates peppermint with everything he has.

“Really, dearie?” he snorts. “Is that the best you’ve got. Algernon indeed.”

She sidles closer to him, closer in fact than she’s ever been before. “Am I warm?” Belle asks.

Oh, she’s certainly that. He can feel her breath on his face, and he thinks if he touches her he might self-combust. “Not in the slightest,” he lies.

Belle hums and inches her way even closer, her eyes impossibly blue. “How about now?”

Gold tamps down the urge to bolt. “Positively glacial.”

Suddenly small hands are grabbing hold of his tie and pulling his head down until their mouths are almost touching. There’s a pause that lasts a second, a life time and then she brushes her lips against his.

“In case the coffee wasn’t enough of a thank you.”

There's a moment when he wonders if it would be impolite to return the kiss and in that moment, Belle slowly pulls away. Gold's mouth immediately tries to follow hers but it’s too late. She pats him gently on the chest and smiles gently. “I’m running behind and Regina will have my guts for garters if she’s at the library before I get there to open up. Thank you again for the dress. It’s wonderful. And – uh – well, so are you. I promise not to spill anything on it.” She gestures towards the hateful drink taking pride of place on his pristine counter. “Enjoy the coffee. I think you’ll like it.”

Gold is unable to share Belle's optimism but there is one thing he's suddenly feeling more upbeat about. The summer gala, now he knows the librarian will be there, will perhaps be less of a chore than in previous years. At least he'll have someone to pass the time with, if she's not too busy mingling with her new friends and the great and good of Storybrooke because Madam Mayor is no fool and will know she's got an asset in the form of Miss French. He just hopes Regina is going to drop the idea of a charity auction. And that Zelena hasn't received an invitation.


	7. Chapter 7

Gold tugs at his tie, trying to loosen the knot a little and wishes – not for the first time – that the town hall had air conditioning. It’s stiflingly hot and his temper, rising in direct correlation with the temperature, is not being helped by the fact that he and Regina have spent the last two hours trying to finalise the seating plan for the gala. The highly polished table is covered by a large felt board dotted with strips of paper with names scrawled on them, hundreds of tiny pins, a bottle of scotch and two heavy crystal glasses.

He’s unsure if the alcohol is helping or not.

“For the last time, you cannot put Killian Jones and Miss Swan on the same table, unless you actually want one of your guests ending the evening being cuffed and forcibly removed from the premises.”

Gold watches as Regina slides Jones’ name across to another table (poor unsuspecting sods) as she tries – and fails – to not smile and he wonders if his suspicions about the mayor’s feelings for the sheriff are not completely unfounded. Regina plays her cards close to her chest but he wouldn’t be surprised if she enjoys the fact that Miss Swan is one of the few people in town who’s not afraid of her.

Watching how they interact next week might be mildly amusing, Gold idly thinks, picking up his glass. And God knows entertainment is going to be in short supply. Regina is still hell bent on holding another auction, despite his forceful objections (her assurances that there’s ‘nothing for you to worry about, Gold’ does nothing to put his fears to bed). And if she asks him just one more time how his costume is coming along ‘(I do hope you’re going to be wearing horns’)…

He realises his grip has tightened on his drink when Regina breaks into his thoughts. “Trouble in paradise, Gold?”

A dark glare is thrown her way. “I have no idea to what you are referring,” he growls. 

“Not what, who. Miss French.”

He ignores her so Regina helpfully qualifies that statement, smirking around her own glass. “You know. Belle. Our librarian. The only person shorter than you. Not bad looking if blue eyes and an Australian accent are your thing. My employee who until a few days seemed to be spending more time with you in your shop than in her place of work.”

“I know who she is, Regina” he snaps. Gold knows he should be able to resist gobbling down her bait like a starving fish but the fact she somehow has picked up on the fact he’s out of sorts and has made the link to Belle (lucky stab in the dark or something more intuitive?) has thrown him off kilter.

Regina tries to shut down her tiny smile of victory but Gold sees it and wants to sink his head into his hands. Because it’s true, dammit. The momentary euphoria Gold experienced after the kiss has long since evaporated into the ether, to be replaced by the bitter taste of reality: that Belle French is of a different generation who no doubt places as much importance on a thank you kiss as she does sending a text message. 

So since then Gold’s been doing his very best to avoid the librarian, although to be honest it took the offerings of first an apple and cinnamon latte followed by a monstrous combination of maple syrup cream topped with smoked bacon shavings to force him into putting in place more drastic measures, namely closing up shop to, as the note on the door reads, carry out his annual stocktake. Which in fact has involved minimal paperwork but making steady inroads into his collection of fine red wines while listening to Beethoven’s violin concerto in D Minor on repeat. 

“Want to talk about it?” Regina asks, intruding into Gold’s reverie, her voice not completely unkind.

“Only when hell freezes over,” he replies. 

She shrugs and with that the offer is off the table. “Fine. Have it your own way. Let’s get on with this, shall we? It’s nearly six o’clock on a Friday night and I’m sure we both have places we’d rather be. Or rather, I have places I’d rather be.” Regina leans across the table and pulls several names towards her. “Alright, let’s see now, who do we have here?” She hums. “Gaston Le Gume. Up and coming architect. Comes from money. The downside is he’s a bit of a beefcake and fancies himself a ladies’ man.”

Gold sighs. “Christ. He sounds like a complete arse.”

“Arse he might be but he’s built himself up quite the clientele. And he’s single so how about he goes here, with some of the younger crowd.” Regina leans over to pull the felt board closer, tapping it with one long red nail, for emphasis. “This table, I think.”

Gold feels his heart plummet when he sees the names that have already allocated; Belle’s among them. And Miss Lucas. And where Killian Jones’ name now sits. A surge of what he really hopes is not jealousy washes over him because he knows he can’t possibly compete with the likes of a thirty-something high flier, who no doubt owns a luxury pad, drives a fast car, flashes the cash and is all solid muscle.

He hopes Regina can’t hear him grinding his teeth.

“I thought you liked Miss Lucas,” he forces out, hoping that by highlighting Regina’s assistant’s plight it might deflect her focus away from Belle and what he fears is a look of bitter disappointment on his face.

“Oh, Ruby can look after herself, believe me,” Regina blithely replies, seemingly happy to throw her assistant under the bus. “And I think Miss French can too – that bookworm has teeth. I have a feeling Gaston might be rather intrigued by her, and not just because she’s good looking. She’s well-read and is a decent conversationalist. And well, she’s young, foot loose and fancy free so what harm can there be in putting them in each other’s way? It’s not as if anyone else is interested in her, now is there?”

He can feel the amusement coming off her in waves and a surge of pure, unadulterated rage rushes through him. He toys for a moment with the idea of throttling her and leaving her body for the cleaners to discover. Or perhaps giving her a couple of well-placed whacks with his cane. Regina thinks she’s so clever, toying with him like this to see if she can get a reaction from him, but she’s got a long wait coming if she wants him to reveal to her his innermost thoughts.

He puts his best smile on, the one that shows his gold tooth off to its best advantage. “Very thoughtful of you Madam Mayor. And who am I to get in the way of true love, after all. I just hope Miss Lucas and Miss French keep a sharp instrument about their person to fend off any roving hands. A fork should do it.”

Regina takes a satisfied sip of her drink. “Excellent, I’m glad you approve. Well now we’ve got that table sorted, we just need to solve the problem of where to seat you.”

Fuck.

And just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, Regina adds, “oh and by the way, my sister wanted me to tell you she’s looking forward to picking up from where the two of you left off last year.”

Fuck.

00000

It’s gone ten o’clock and Gold is ensconced in his favourite brown leather armchair, wearing a pair of navy blue silk pyjamas rolled up at the sleeves, the top two buttons undone, and reading a hardback copy of the Pickwick Papers he’d brought with him from the shop by the light of his tiffany lamp. 

He and Regina finally called it quits just before eight thirty after an exhausting round of negotiations that involved a spot of mutual blackmail (Gold had bartered a seat for himself at the opposite end of the ballroom from Zelena, on the condition that he stays at least ten meters away from Miss Swan at all times and that if he doesn’t wear horns he at least conjures up a costume fit for a sprite to wear).

By the time he’d reached his Victorian villa, he was desperate for a cold shower, a glass of chianti classico and a plate of pasta in a rich tomato, anchovy and caper sauce he’d made the day before. An hour later and he’s starting to feel a little more human. The shower had certainly helped to cool his temper down and the wine is slipping down a treat so when the doorbell rings, he decides to ignore it. Whoever thinks it’s appropriate to turn up at his private residence at this time can go hang - and besides, his meal is almost ready.

The bell rings again and this time it sounds as if the person is leaning against it. He winces.

It could be an emergency although if it’s Regina, he will have no compunction in slamming the door in her face. He leaves his cane where it is, propped up against the side table, and makes his way down the hallway, calling out impatiently to let the unwelcome visitor know to let go of the bell before his hearing completely goes. 

The noise pest finally stops making that infernal racket – well that or they’ve broken the bell, for which repairs they will most certainly be billed. As Gold limps to the door, he can’t make out who’s outside – there’s a faint silhouette against the coloured glass but nothing more. He pulls the door open with unnecessary force and suddenly there’s a person tumbling over the doorstep with a soft ‘oof’ and having to use their hands against Gold’s chest to act as a brake.

One quick horrified glance downwards tells him his unwanted caller is none other than Belle French. You couldn’t possibly mistake hair that shade of brown or the way it’s artfully curled to hang in long ringlets. Or the light scent of something fresh and flowery that wafts his way.

“Sorry about that,” Belle says, not sounding the least bit apologetic, and pulls away. “I wasn’t expecting you to open the door.”

“Then why did you set about assaulting my doorbell?” he asks, not unreasonably. “And didn’t you hear me calling that I was on my way?’ he follows up with. “Or were you perhaps so deafened by the sound of the front door bell which you seemed determined to put through its paces.”

Gold could quite happily have continued in this vein but finds himself grinding to a halt when he sees a strange look appear on Belle’s face that he thinks has nothing to do with his opening gambit, brusque though it was.

“You’re…”

She tries again.

“You’ve – uh.“

Gold stares at her, perplexed by her inability to complete a whole sentence. She in turn seems to be staring at his forearms.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve dragged me out here to listen to this garbled nonsense?”

There’s a faint flush across Belle’s cheekbones and he wonders if perhaps she’s had too much sun. It had after all been a very warm day.

“Are you unwell, Miss French,” he probes, not ungently.

She brushes his concern to one side. “No, I’m fine, thanks. But you – you look – um – a bit – um.” Sparking blue eyes are fixed on his. “Were you – were you in bed?” 

Gold is rather unimpressed by Belle’s falteringly implication that he should have been asleep and replies with some asperity. “I know my clubbing days are well behind me but I’m not completely in my dotage you know. It’s only just past ten o’clock on a Friday night.” He fixes Belle with a long look. 

“But – you’re in your – and, er – your hair’s…”

“My hair is what, exactly?” he interrupts, running his hands through it before it suddenly dawns on him he’s standing there in front of half of Storybrooke dressed only in his pyjamas, exchanging words with someone he's supposedly avoiding (hiding from). 

Belle moistens her lips and feebly waves a hand at him. “Wet?” she says, framing it as a question.

“Well I have just got out of the shower, so yes, it’s wet. What of it? And more to the point, what on earth do you think you’re doing turning up here in the middle of the night, disturbing me?”

“A moment ago you said it was only just gone ten,” Belle backchats, but he thinks she’s replying on autopilot because her eyes keep darting to where his hair hangs in waves around his face, down to where the collar of his pyjama rests against his throat, and back up again. He cannot for the life of him understand what her fascination with either can possible be.

Gold leans against the door jamb to rest his aching leg. It feels as if they might be there some time exchanging assorted pleasantries so he might as well get comfortable. He tries to speak in what he hopes is a reasonable tone.

“Why are you here, Belle?”

The use of her first name seems to distract her from scrutinising his personal grooming decisions.

“I haven’t seen you in nearly a week and I wanted to make sure you were ok. I didn’t know you were going to vanish off the face of the earth until I turned up with a new coffee for you to try (Gold tries and fails to suppress a shudder at the thought of what horror he could have had inflicted on him). And then Ruby wouldn’t give me your personal cell number (Gold makes a mental note to recommend Regina pays Miss Lucas a generous in-year bonus) so...” Belle shrugs as if to say ‘so here I am.’ 

Gold is still really none the wiser. “I did leave a notice on the shop door, which unless I’m much mistaken made it crystal clear as to why I would not be available.”

“It didn’t say when you’d be back,” Belle murmurs.

“I didn’t realise you were my keeper, Miss French,” Gold can’t help but snap and immediately regrets it when he sees the way her face falls. Just because he’d allowed himself to read too much into a kiss there’s no need to take it out on Belle. He holds a hand out in supplication. “I’m sorry, that sounded harsher than it should have.”

He feels a pang of guilt at how Belle’s whole body language changes from wilting flower to a new spring shoot at his words and he hears himself say, “look, I’m about to eat, would you like to come in for a few minutes?”

Gold's slightly taken aback at the alacrity with which Belle accepts his offer of – hospitality? Dinner? Wine? She does demur at first (oh I wouldn't want to put you out) but he finds himself insisting she stays (really, Miss French, it's no trouble), and realises he means it. Because although Belle might have no feelings for him other than those saved for an older uncle (what a demeaning thought), she’s kind and beautiful so for now he’ll take what he can get, even if it means having to enjoy more of those appalling drinks she likes to call coffee. He wonders when would be the right time to start dropping some subtle hints about how much he really hates pumpkin.

“The kitchen is up the end of the corridor, last door on the left.” Belle slides past him, flashing a bright smile as she does so. “There’s a bottle of red open on the counter, help yourself if you want something to drink. Otherwise I have tea or coffee.” She waves at him over her shoulder and he listens to the sound of her shoes click, click, clicking on the parquet flooring before slowly closing the front door. Leaning back against it Gold closes his eyes.

Theres's no fool like an old fool.


	8. Chapter 8

If asked, Gold would be the first to acknowledge that he is not normally a fan of spontaneity, preferring instead to have his days mapped out with military precision in his smart leather-bound diary but this evening has been surprisingly enjoyable once he’d got over his initial unease. 

After a slightly tentative start, where Belle was all friendly smiles and soft laughs and he was all stilted, awkward conversation, things loosened up once Gold opens a bottle of a rather good Californian 2014 Merlot (a recent discovery for which he supposes he should thank Regina, who’s been constantly badgering him to widen his tastes beyond old world wines) while sitting opposite each other at his oak kitchen table, a plate of homemade chicken liver parfait, a selection of cheeses and chutneys and some granary toast between them to nibble on.

“This is delicious,” Belle comments around a mouthful of crumbly bread. “I didn’t have you down as someone who’d be at home in the kitchen.”

Gold throws her a faux-hurt look. “You wound me,” he proclaims, hand against his heart. “You invite yourself to my house and then proceed to insult me.” 

Belle chortles. “As if. But seriously,” she says, looking around the kitchen where every bit of kitchen surface is filled with gadgets, including what looks very much like a water bath. “I thought you’d be someone who’d completely eschew the idea of modern equipment in favour of good old fashioned frying and roasting techniques. I mean, do you actually use any of this stuff?” She points at a breadmaker, which is sitting next to a pasta making machine. Both are suspiciously clean and shiny.

Gold chews carefully before he replies, resisting for as long as possible the urge to show off but then caves as quickly as a souffle, telling her proudly that she’s eating bread he’d baked only the night before. His brag is rewarded with a whistle of appreciation.

“Nice, Gold, very nice. If you ever gave up being married to the mob you could give Granny a run for her money.”

A crumb goes down the wrong way and Gold chokes.

“Married to the mob?” he gasps. “Really? Really Miss French, is that what you think. That I’m a mafia don?”

Belle ticks items off on her fingers. “The suits. The car. The henchman.”

“Dove is not my henchman,” Gold protests. “He’s my handyman.”

“A six foot seven handyman. Who looks terrifying, even if he can be rather sweet once you get to know him.” That earns her a quirked eyebrow and a mental note to see just how exactly Dove is spending his spare time. 

He decides to let that drop for the moment. “And what’s wrong with my suits,’ Gold instead asks.

Belle shifts around on her chair. “Oh nothing at all. They’re very…” Her voice tails off as she searches for the appropriate adjective to apply to his wardrobe.

Gold waits, head cocked on one side, waiting for Belle to finish her sentence.

“Very - what - Miss French? Pray do tell.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Just very - expensive. And, well, you must own about fifty of them, all of them black, most of them pinstriped, and let’s be honest here, they’re not exactly off the peg, now are they? Each one must cost upwards of $500. And that’s before we get to your shirts.”

“Spent a lot of time thinking about my suits have you?” Gold grins and Belle’s face flushes a fetching shade of pink. His grin widens even further. This is so much fun, he thinks. She’s so easy to tease, sitting there with that tiny smirk, looking pleased with herself, as if she belongs here, trading blows with the king of the put down.

“Well while you’re in the mood for being frank and honest, what on earth do you have against my car? I mean, who doesn’t like a cadillac?”

The noise that comes out of her mouth is more gurgle than laugh. “It’s a car only a mobster would drive, Gold. It could fit a family of ten in the back, or if it’s a family of Doves, maybe five. Or...at the very least conceal a couple of bodies. You know, of people who dared renege on a deal with you.”

Belle sips her wine, eyes bright and merry. “How about you take a leaf out of the mayor’s book instead and buy yourself a classic car. Her mercedes is a gem.” She thinks for a moment. “Hey, and then you’d finally have something in common with her.”

He waits until the gurgling finally fades away. “You fancy yourself a bit of a comedian, don’t you Miss French?” Gold asks but without any real rancour. “How about you stop with the jokes and concentrate on finishing that final piece of pate, hm, before it’s completely cold?”

Belle shakes her head. “Oh I couldn’t eat another thing, thank you, It was delicious though. I might have to get the recipe from you when I’m feeling less full.” She pushes the plate away from her and Gold uses his cane to lever himself up and clear the table, waving away her offer of help. 

He glances at the clock above the oven. It’s almost eleven o’clock.“Would you like a digestif or are you too full?” 

Belle smiles. “Well if you’re not kicking me straight out, I’d love a cointreau if you have it.”

Gold shudders. “How ghastly. But if you insist. Why don’t you go and take a seat in the living room. Second door on the right. I’ll just finish up here and be with you shortly.” He watches as Belle skips out of the kitchen and shakes his head in disbelief at how his evening is turning out. Gold lets the water run cold; a glass of water and a few minutes to gather his thoughts is just what he needs. 

00000

After a five minute cooling down period, Gold joins Belle, who looks right at home and immediately tells him how wonderful his house is. Looking around, trying to see it through fresh eyes, he thinks that he should carve out some time to carry out a serious exercise in decluttering but for the moment enjoys watching his guest as she roams around the room, examining a pile of history books on a coffee table, stroking the huge burgundy tassel tie back holding a floor length brocade curtain in place, running a finger along the spine of a carved jade dragon he’d bought in a fleamarket up the coast. 

Once her curiosity is satisfied, for the time being at least, Belle curls up on his brown leather sofa, her skirt settling around her knees and a cushion of soft velvet in a dusky pink (‘nice to see you’ve accessorised your furnishings to match the exterior of your house’) hugged tightly to her while he sinks into his favourite armchair, deftly ignoring both Belle’s repeated patting of the empty seat next to her, and the resulting pout that on her looks rather charming.

Gold pours a generous measure of cointreau into a cut glass tumbler and hands it over before helping himself to two fingers-worth of scotch. Belle thanks him and then sighs gently. “When I was little I used to imagine living in a place like this. You know,” and she points at the wall lined with shelves of books, “with a library room that required a rolling ladder. Like in My Fair Lady.”

He’s happy to admit that no, he doesn’t know but Belle is more than happy to enlighten him. She sings a few bars of “The Rain in Spain” that are so horribly out of tune Gold has trouble not wincing. Belle French is a woman of many talents but holding a melody is sadly not one of them. Thankfully, her mind flits rapidly from one subject to another and she’s soon regaling him with tales from her own library. How Henry Mills practically lives in the fantasy section, bombarding the assistant librarian with questions about Terry Pratchett and whether it would be fun to own a piece of luggage that ate people until Regina swoops by in a cloud of chanel No5 to whisk her son away. About how the workshops’ attendance has been a little hit and miss which she blames the hot weather for (who wants to be in a dark building when they could be eating icecream down by the waterside) but that she has plenty of ideas for when the weather finally breaks. And how Miss Harbottle has taken to coming in and demanding ever more obscure works of literature and looking increasingly put out when Belle has been able to help with her enquiries (it’s almost as if she’s testing me although I can’t for the life of me see why she feels the need to).

Her speaking voice, with that lilting australian accent, is far more soothing on his ears than her singing voice so Gold leans back in his chair, scotch forgotten as he watches how she uses her hands to emphasise a point she’s making, how brilliantly her eyes shine, how the soft lighting makes her hair shine. He barely has to make a contribution to the conversation; instead he can relax, happy for Belle to hold court, to shine.

Gold’s not sure how long they’ve been there, caught up in their own little bubble but both their glasses are empty. However it’s only when Belle raises her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn that he realises it must be getting very late. A glance at the mantelpiece clock corroborates this. It’s close to one o’clock in the morning and he has to be up at seven in time to open up the shop for a delivery of victorian furniture he won at auction.

Belle protests that she’s fine, that really she’s a night owl who loves nothing more than reading until it’s nearly dawn if a book’s gripping enough, but a second yawn, rapidly followed by a third belies this statement and wins her a huff of a laugh from Gold who’s not fooled for a moment. 

He also knows, because he already fears that Belle might well prove to be his achilles heel, the person who can wriggle beneath his skin, that he’s within a sniff of making a potentially disastrous offer to Belle of inviting her to stay the night in one of his four guestrooms, rather than call for a taxi. And then he’d have to find her something to wear, and even worse than that have to face her in the morning, when they’re sober and quite possibly hungover. No oil painting at the best of times he’s not keen to be exposed as the feeble old man he really is.

No it’s time to call an end to tonight’s odd little adventure. 

“It’s getting late Miss French,” Gold says gently and he levers himself out of the chair and takes a few faltering steps (where has he left his cane?) to where Belle is sitting, glaring at him with defiance while clinging determinedly to her cushion as if it provides her with sufficient protection from a host who wants her gone.

“We’re well into the wee hours and while you may be able to survive on six hours sleep, alas, I cannot, so…” and he holds out his hand. As hers reluctantly reaches out to take his, Gold experiences an unpleasant jolt of realisation that comes from nowhere that it’s been years since he’s willingly allowed someone else to touch him. Fuelled by a sudden injection of pity and anger at himself for allowing such a thought to enter his mind, he pulls Belle to her feet with a little too much power; his punishment for this rough treatment is meted out immediately in the form of a soft, warm body pushing up against him for a moment, which is then followed up by a pair of hands insinuating themselves along his collarbone until they come to rest where his hair meets the edges of his pyjamas.

"Sorry," she chirps, not sounding in the least bit sorry at all.

Panicking Gold edges away until the back of his legs hit the chair and he falls into it, followed by Belle who lands in his lap with a soft ‘oof’. Instinctively his hands settle around her waist to make sure she’s alright and not in danger of falling and in doing so inadvertently pulls her in closer to him. Belle’s waist is so tiny his hands almost meet as they circle her, and she’s warm and pliant beneath them. Their faces are close enough that he’s sure their breath is mingling. He’s panting as if he’s just finished a marathon and Belle takes advantage of this to inch her fingers slowly up from his chest until they’re resting along the collar of his pyjamas.

“I like what you're wearing,” she whispers and strokes a lapel. “They make you look - soft, less armour plated.” She continues her exploration, her touch feather light as fingers brush against his throat, until they stop again above his pulse point.The sensations threaten to overwhelm him and he has to close his eyes for a second while he regains a sense of control.

“Belle. Please. I need you to - “

She kisses him, softly but with intent, her tongue running along the seam of his lips seeking entrance and there’s nothing he wants more than to kiss her back, kiss her until her lips are swollen but he can’t, he mustn’t because she’s had quite a bit to drink and he would hate to think that she’ll regret this in the morning. Because he knows that if she was sober she wouldn’t want to touch him with a barge pole.

Christ, she’s going to be the death of him.

“Belle. Please. This is - this is…” He moves his head to one side and feels her lips against his ear. There's biting followed by licking and well. Fuck. Who knew earlobes could be an erogenous zone.

He removes his hands to gently push against her shoulder until with a soft noise of complaint Belle sits back. He has to bite back a moan because in doing that she’s creating the most exquisite sort of friction against his cock which is now lying heavy and plump against his thigh. Christ Almighty he wants to thrust up against her core, see her lose control, hear her beg for more...

His voice sounds very hoarse as he starts to plead with Belle. “It’s very late and well, lovely though this is, though you are, we’ve both had a little too much to drink and - uh - I don’t want you to do anything you’re going to regret in the morning.”

There’s a moment when he thinks she’s not going to listen to him but then she stills above him before clambering off, much to his relief, and starts busily brushing down the skirt of her dress. Gold takes the opportunity while she’s distracted to subtly readjust himself and thank any gods that are listening for wearing loose fitting trousers.

“Can I arrange for Dove to take you home or would you like me to call a taxi for you?” he asks when Belle still hasn’t said anything but is looking at him with an expression on her face he isn’t able to read before it’s replaced with a smile. He should be relieved to see she's alright with this, but he senses that there’s something not quite right about it; it doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. But it’s late, he’s tired and they’re both slightly tipsy so it’s no doubt nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him.

“That’s kind of you to offer but I would hate for Dove to be disturbed this late,” Belle says after an infinitesimal pause. “It looks like it’s a beautiful night and there’s a full moon so I think I’ll walk back.” Another pause. “And clear my head.”

Her smile this time is a little sad. Gold thinks she’s probably someone who can get a little maudlin after a few drinks and is pleased he had the sense to draw the evening to a close before she became weepy. He’s not sure he would be very good at handling a weepy Belle. 

He nods. “Well if you’re quite sure then, I’ll see you out.”

Belle’s muttered response is followed up by a quiet snort but she doesn’t offer anything else up after that so they walk in what now feels like a slightly uncomfortable silence along the hallway until they reach the door. While his mind rapidly sifts through and rejects a selection of end-of-evening farewells suitable for use after a bout of entirely unexpected kissing, Belle tugs the door open with quite a lot of force for someone so slight.

“Well I’ll be seeing you around, Gold,” she says, failing to make eye contact. “Sorry for overstaying my welcome.” And without giving him a chance to say anything in return she walks away from the house and from him without a backward glance, her posture impressively stiff and upright for someone who’s drunk wine and cointreau in under two hours.

Gold finds himself watching Belle until she disappears around the corner of his street in case she looks back (she doesn’t), before closing the door and turning the latch. He's still hard and he palms his cock for a moment before letting his head thump hard against the wall in the vain hope it might knock some sense into him. 

One step forward, far too many back. And what truce there had been between them earlier is now most definitely at an end.


	9. Chapter 9

All Gold has ever wanted is a simple life filled with people who are scared of him, safely kept at arm’s length. Yet in a moment of weakness he’d allowed the librarian to get under his skin and ever since then he’s been speeding ever faster to hell in a handcart. 

He’d thought he’d saved Belle from a life time of regret by putting a stop to her tipsy overtures but based on the cold shoulder she’d shown him when he’d called in to the library to make sure she’d reached home safely it seems that perhaps he’d misread the situation. Expecting to be greeted by a warm smile and the opportunity to build on the undeniable rapport that had started up between them that evening, he’d instead been met with a rather cool reception, Belle distant and unsmiling. 

Caught off guard he’d stuttered out his hope that she’d not felt too unwell the next morning and sought her agreement that it had been sensible to have called an end to the evening when he had, only to see a frown wrinkling Belle’s forehead and be on the receiving end of a rather sharp “I’m more than capable of making my own decisions, Gold”, bringing the conversation to an abrupt close.

He’d left the library shortly afterwards, feeling that something had gone seriously awry but unable to pinpoint exactly what that was, and even more worryingly, what he should do about it. He toys briefly with the idea of popping in to the town hall on the pretext of some business matter or other and slyly testing the waters with Regina but he discards that notion as quickly as it had appeared. Regina may be many things (sardonic, hard-nosed, sharp-eyed) but empathy is not one of her strong points and he knows she’ll see right through him.

He’s on his own.

The suspicion that he’s somehow managed to upset the one person in town apart from Regina he could even come close to describing as a friend is soon confirmed when it becomes apparent that Belle has settled up on a cruel and unusual form of revenge for whatever it is he’s done.

His punishment is not to be ignored (he’s beginning to think he’d actually prefer this) but instead to be plagued by a tenant whose accommodation, if she would have him believe, is apparently disintegrating around her lovely ears. Ears that he’d quite like to box except his would likely be boxed right back.

If Gold wasn’t so frustrated with this turn of events, he’d probably be rather impressed by her ingenuity.

First it was a call at five o’clock in the morning to inform him about a clogged-up washing machine (just how she’d mistakenly poured in the entire contents of a bag of couscous instead of washing powder and why she’d waited until the crack of dawn the next day before telling him he’ll never understand but it had taken him fucking ages to unclog the pipes and it’ll be a long time before he ever orders a tagine again).

Then it was a hairline crack in the living room ceiling that he could barely see even when she very helpfully stood on a chair in the highest of heels and shortest of skirts to better point it out to him. Belle had looked so unsteady up there that he’d tried to support her. He really hadn’t meant to put his hands around her waist and thinks it was only a matter of seconds before he realised his error and pulled them away, thinking Belle would curse him out for such unwanted contact (although in fact Belle hadn’t seem particularly upset by his overstepping the mark) and the memory of how she’d felt beneath his hands, and the transfer of heat from her to him had forced him into taking a very cold shower after he’d arrived home.

And yesterday it was the turn of the air conditioning unit which had packed up (‘have you tried turning it off and on again and off’ not seeming to do the trick). It had been very distracting trying to work out what the problem was while the librarian flitted around the living room clad in what could best be described a barely-there pair of denim shorts and a cotton midriff top asking if there was anything she could do to help while practically fellating an ice lolly.

So – mainly for the sake of his sanity, Gold has taken to skulking in his backroom at the shop, the place he feels most comfortable – a dragon in his lair surrounded by his treasures, feeling – unsettled and more than a little unhappy at how things between him and Belle have so quickly swung from a gentle friendship to one based on mutual hostility. 

Sighing, he takes another look at the clasp of a rather fine art deco bracelet through his magnifying glass. It’s probably worth about $700 dollars and there’s been a fair amount of interest in buying it but he’s having difficulty maintaining concentration, distracted as he is. Picking up his magnifying glass Gold’s about to settle in for another round of repairs when he hears the shop door being flung open with such gusto that he’s startled into dropping the piece on the table with a sharp clatter.

Only one person ever abuses his door like that. And it’s not Dr Hopper.

His heart does that annoying single hard thump that always signals the beginning of an interaction between him and the librarian but his voice is even when he calls out. 

“Miss French. How lovely of you to call in on me, and so soon after our last meeting.”

Her voice reaches him, lilting and his heart thumps another treacherous thump.

“How did you know it was me?”

Gold gets to his feet and instinctively straightens his navy and red polka dot silk tie. “Call it intuition, dearie,” he mutters under his breath before slowly making his way to where his adversary is holding a dainty jug decorated with tiny pink roses up to the light.

“What seems to be the trouble today Miss French? A hole in the skirting board that needs filling? Comestibles blocking the sink? Vermin in the roof? 

Belle doesn’t flinch, even though she has her back to him, and carefully replaces the jug before turning around to flash him a smile that fails to reach her eyes. 

“Well,” she replies waspishly, “if your property portfolio was better managed I’d have no need to keep intruding on your time.”

Gold bares his teeth in return because that really is a blow below the belt. He returns fire. “And if you took better care of the property, Miss French, then perhaps you’d have no need to be constantly requesting my presence.” He pauses. “Especially seeing as how none of the incidents were what I would describe as an emergency.”

While Belle busies herself rolling her eyes, Gold retrieves from the top drawer a copy of the tenant’s agreement and silently turns to page three of the contract before pushing it across the counter. 

“Very well then, if you have nothing else to say I would like to draw your attention to paragraph seven, clause b (ii).”  
Belle leans over to snatch the document but Gold places the palm of his hand across it.

“Oh please, let me.” He starts to read out loud. “Tenant obligations: Tenants are typically responsible for ensuring their property stays sanitary, clean and in good repair. A landlord is generally not responsible for making any repairs caused by the tenant's own carelessness.” He is careful to emphasise ‘sanitary’ and ‘clean’.

Looking across at Belle he waits for her to respond. She’s not normally shy in sharing her opinions on – well, pretty much everything but she says nothing, standing there in a shaft of sunlight that burnishes her hair a dark auburn.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks nastily and enjoys the way Belle’s eyes flash when his words hit home.

“Because I would say under the terms of the contract I went way above and beyond the call of duty to take time out of my busy day to ensure your pipes were cleared of about two person’s worth of couscous when that was clearly down to…” He pauses for dramatic effect before “the tenant’s own carelessness.”

Another beat of silence.

“Some landlords would charge a call out rate for unnecessary work,” Gold continues. “So I do hope that whatever you’re here for today is not going to be wasting my time, and yours.”

Gold waits. He has all the time in the world and is interested to see Belle’s next move. A range of emotions are racing across her face, almost too quickly for him to process. He thinks he sees irritation, followed by defiance and something resembling fury. Is she going to gracefully back down and call it quits or is she going to continue on the path towards self-destruction.

He doesn’t have long to wait.

With a gleam of triumph that flashes in those blue eyes of hers, Belle makes her move. She looks rather pleased with whatever ridiculous problem she’s about to come up with.

“As it happens, there’s a problem with my bed. Or rather the bedframe. I think it’s broken.”

Checkmate. Gold quirks an eyebrow in response. She’s a clever thing.

“And how exactly did that happen, I wonder?” he muses out loud before realising he’s just fallen into her trap, like a fly tangling itself in a silken web.

Belle’s grin reminds him of a cat that’s just found a whole vat of cream.

“Well a lady never tells,” she chirps at him and he’s furious at the flush he can feel heating his cheeks. “But let’s just say it was worth it.”

Unbidden, images of Belle naked on top of some young muscle man, eyes closed in pleasure, rolling her hips, hair loose around her shoulders pop into his mind. Embarrassment is rapidly replaced with some unidentifiable feeling that coils in his stomach like wet rope.

He looks around the shop at anything but the woman in front of him until he manages to get a grip of his emotions and then, still avoiding eye contact with Belle, removes a diary and pen from one of the drawers in front of him.

“Well in that case, when would be a suitable time to visit the apartment,” he asks.

“Would seven o’clock one evening this week be alright with you?”

Gold grunts in response and then carefully notes down the time. “Very well Miss French. I’ll send Dove over tomorrow.” He looks up just in time to catch the tiny nose wrinkle as she processes this but she smiles a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and then she’s bid him a good day and leaves him in peace and quiet to think about what’s just happened.

00000

It’s six o’clock. Dove has just left the house after sharing a pot of tea with his boss, looking pleased to have been given the evening off. 

Gold has spent most of this morning pacing up and down his study weighing up the pros and cons of seeing if this new battle of wits with Belle will just run its course or if by sending Dove he’s just going to succeed in putting more ammunition her way. He’d finally decided that much as he enjoys a good old-fashioned skirmish with a decent opponent (and there’s no denying Belle has a talent for words that almost matches his) he would rather not be trading barbs with her but instead be sharing a bottle of wine while discussing politics, or world history, or new ideas for the library and seeing how her blue eyes blaze as she warms to her topic.

Gold eyes his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He’s had to replace his usual go-to outfit for something more informal, having learned the hard way that once couscous gets into your trouser pockets it’s the very devil to remove and that suit was one of his favourites. He’s managed to dig out a pair of mustard yellow corduroy trousers and a bottle green dress shirt from the depths of his chest of drawers that make him look like an elderly, eccentric professor dressed for a Glasgow winter rather than a sultry, humid Maine summer but it can’t be helped. He’s damned if he’s going to ruin another of his suits and he doesn’t possess anything else that he’s happy to see get coated in dust and god knows what. 

Huffing, he runs his hands through his hair, noticing that there are yet more silver strands running through it and that his sideburns are almost completely white. How very unedifying. Gold turns away to pick up his cane. He just has time to choose a bottle of wine because he’s decided that some Dutch courage might be in order if he’s going to try and thaw Belle’s icy reserve tonight and clear the air between them.

Forty-five minutes later and Gold raps sharply on Belle’s front door.

“Just coming,” she cries and Gold reflexively raises one hand to make sure his tie is straight before realising he’s not wearing one, letting it drop to his side. The door is flung open (at least he now knows the treatment of the shop door is not an isolated event) and Belle stands there, a smile on her face which fades away as soon as she sees who’s there.

Gold for his part immediately notices that Belle seems to have foregone her usual at-home attire in favour of an orange and cream coloured long sleeved high-necked top that reaches her knees and a pair of loose fitted full length white cotton trousers. Her toenails are scarlet.

“Gold.” 

At least she hasn’t slammed the door in his face which he takes as a good sign.

“I hope you don’t mind. I gave Dove the evening off as he was working until the small hours today overseeing a number of deliveries for me.”

Belle’s eyes flicker up and down Gold’s body before they meet his.

“Is this dress down Wednesday?” she asks, and he thinks there’s a slight hint of amusement in her voice. “I didn’t think you owned anything other than the same suit in different colours.”

“Well, after the couscous debacle I thought it better to play it safe than incur another extortionate dry cleaners’ bill. Armani doesn’t come cheap you know.”

Belle has the grace to look a tiny bit embarrassed at this but says nothing other than inviting him in. Dutifully following her through to the living room, he can’t help thinking as he hands over the wine that he’s spent more time here over the last week than his own home. 

Belle takes the bottle from him and eyes it with the same look of suspicion normally bestowed on unexploded World War II bombs. “What’s this for?” she asks, before taking it through to the kitchen. “And where’s the toolkit?”

Gold shrugs. “I thought we could have a glass first, before I fix the bed. And it’s in the car.”

Belle studies the label and says something about finding a corkscrew and for Gold to take a seat.

Gold does as he’s told and settles himself in a squishy armchair, resting his back against an oversized cushion that has perky yellow chicks on the cover, happy to wait until Belle’s ready. He picks up a book resting on the coffee table and sees it’s on the French Revolution so occupies himself by reading the introduction.

“Any good?” he asks when Belle finally re-emerges with two glasses and the bottle on a lacquer tray.

“Takes a while to get into it – the first couple of chapters are pretty dense on the detail but once you’re into the meat of the revolution itself, it’s not bad actually. I was reading it alongside ‘A Place of Greater Safety’.”

She plops down onto the sofa.

Gold frowns. He recognises the title but can’t place the author.

“Hilary Mantel. It makes Wolf Hall look like a children’s novel. You should read it sometime, I think my copy is somewhere here if you’d like to borrow it.”

So far, so good. The evening is off to a promising start, Gold thinks. He watches as Belle pours him a glass of wine before doing the same for herself, a healthy measure which sloshes gently as she places it carefully down on the table.

There’s a beat or two of silence that seems to last an eternity before she leans in towards him. He catches a waft of a scent that reminds him of roses.

“So why are you really here?” Belle asks, gently, as if afraid of startling him. “I’m sure Dove wouldn’t have minded coming over; we’ve quite enjoyed our little chats in the past and he’s a wonderful baker. The last time I saw him he gave me a half a dozen chocolate caramel slices that were to die for.”

After making a mental note to have a word with Dove about fraternising with the tenants, Gold takes a moment or two to answer because he knows that if he gets this wrong there’ll be no second chances. Swallowing hard, he too leans in. Honesty has never been a good colour on him but he wants, more than anything, to see Belle smile at him the way she did at his house, to see her relaxed and giggly, to see that tiny frown that appears on her brow when she’s working out how to parry his hits.

His heart is in his mouth when he starts to speak; he wouldn’t be surprised if Belle can hear the rhythm it’s beating out.

“Because somehow I’ve upset you and I’m sorry about that.”

There. He’s said it. 

That’s wasn’t too hard. He hasn’t had a heart attack and Belle hasn’t hit him around the head with the wine bottle.

There’s a too bright sheen to Belle’s eyes though, and for some reason this compels him to keep talking when it would be wiser to say nothing more.

“And because I’ve missed you. Missed your chattering away about this and that, missed those bloody awful coffees you insist on buying me. Missed the way you’re the only person in this town who actually likes me for who I am and not what I can do for them.”

Fuck. Now he’s said too much. 

Panicking Gold desperately tries to save the situation but only proceeds to dig an even bigger hole for himself.

“I’m sorry, Belle. I’ve spoken out of turn and offended you. This is why I didn’t want you to stay that evening. I’m no good for you. You should be dating a rich young man. Or well, maybe you are. That’s what you implied yesterday in the shop. You don’t get to break a bed by just sleeping in it, I know that much.”

He’s conscious that Belle is still sitting where she was, her mouth opening and closing as if she can’t get enough oxygen into her lungs for the angry response Gold knows is – justifiably – coming his way. Grasping the opportunity to escape before Belle can launch herself into telling him exactly where he can go, Gold is on his feet, reaching for his cane. 

“Dove will call you about a new time for him to come and fix your bed. And I’ll pass on to him the compliments about his baking.”

He’s at the door, ignoring Belle’s soft “Gold, wait. Wait.” Moments later and the door has slammed shut behind him and he’s down the stairs and standing in still warm sunlight trying to breathe. In, out. In, out.

What a stupid arse.

Luckily his car is just outside, black and gleaming. Standing next to it, Gold is wondering if a couple of whacks to the bonnet with his cane would make him feel any better when a loud cough makes him look across the street.

Regina and Henry Mills.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“That a new look on you Gold,” Regina offers up as she crosses to where he’s standing, a smirk so wide on her face you could see it from the surface of the moon. “It’s very – uh…1970s.” She leans in to run an interested finger along the side of his trousers, making him flinch.

“I didn’t even know you could still buy cords,” she adds, as if he was wearing a pair of Georgian pantaloons.

In timing that could not be worse if she’d tried, Belle chooses that very moment to hurtle out of the entrance to the apartment block, breathing heavily. A surreptitious glance her way reveals that she’s managed to make it down the stairs wearing the most ridiculous pair of strappy sandals without breaking her neck. She pulls up short on seeing that Gold has company.

Regina’s grin is so big now and Gold wants nothing more than to be swallowed up by a herd of rampaging elephants.

“And here’s Miss French.” Regina’s dark gaze that flits between the two of them has Gold grinding his teeth. “Not quite as good a costume as Gold’s although may I congratulate you on the choice of heels.”

“Regina.” Gold rumbles a warning at the mayor, who throws a long, too-knowing look his way before grabbing her son’s hand.

“Come, Henry. We’ll be late if we tarry here too long, fascinating though this is. And we wouldn’t want to get in the way of Mr Gold’s afterhours activities, now would we? If we don’t meet again in the next week or so, Miss French, I look forward to seeing you at the gala. Gold, we have a meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow to go over the final arrangements so I’ll see you then. Try and wear something that's not been got at by the moths, hmm?” 

“See you around Belle. Mr Gold.” Henry waves cheerfully at the pawnbroker and the librarian before dutifully trailing after his mother.

Gold cannot bear to look at Belle, to see the look of horror on her face at what’s just been implied. He fishes out his keys and yanks open the car door.

“Gold. Please. Let’s talk about this.” Belle’s pleading voice almost makes him stop getting into the car but he needs some distance.

“I think I’ve said quite enough already. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And with that he slams the door shut and pulls away from the kerb. 

He’s got a date with a bottle of scotch.


	10. Chapter 10

The ballroom looks undeniably beautiful – there’s no disputing the fact that the mayor has exquisite taste. Guests are bathed in soft mellow candlelight that flatters even Miss Harbottle who has eschewed the Midsummer’s Night Dream theme in favour of a dull sage-green tweed suit matched with equally sturdy brown brogues and her own individual take on a fascinator that’s part bat, part roadkill. And perhaps in a small nod to Shakespeare’s play, she’s wearing what looks like a dead forest creature around her neck. It looks very itchy.

The room is large enough to comfortably accommodate the five hundred or so guests who have clearly taken the dress code to heart. Women are wearing silk or chiffon shift dresses in shades of green, blue, pink and cream, embroidered or covered in sequins, that float and shimmer when the light catches the fabric a certain way. Accessories range from garlands of fresh flowers to gauzy wing. Men too have made an effort, many of them here tonight dressed as Oberon based on the number of brown and green tunics on view, often paired with stockings and in some cases horned hats. 

Next door, the round dining tables, dressed with crisp white linen tablecloths, cut crystal glasses, and engraved cutlery and hand-written nameplates, have a tiny moss garden as the centrepiece, set off by miniature ferns. Any guests intrigued by the menu would learn that they were being served sautéed chanterelle mushrooms on home-made brioche to start, followed by a choice of venison wellington with caramelised onions and a port jus or turbot in a cucumber beurre blanc with crushed new potatoes. Dessert options include salted caramel tartlets with pistachio ice cream and lavender poached pears, followed by coffee and macarons.

Nothing but the best for Regina, Belle thinks to herself.

If she wasn’t still so confused and upset by Gold’s behaviour over the last week she would probably have been able to fully appreciate all the work that has gone into making this evening such a huge success. Everyone else attending certainly seems to be enjoying themselves, judging by the sounds of tinkling laughter, glasses being chinked together and the murmur of appreciation when the canapes start being served.

Instead, she finds herself unable to relax, even after a second glass of champagne which has quickly chased after the first one, because of the numerous compliments she’s received about her dress. Every time someone tells her how wonderful she looks the comment is immediately followed by the person asking her where she found the dress and she is sick and tired of having to offer up Gold’s name from between gritted teeth. Saying his name out loud makes her feel as if she’s being stabbed with a white-hot needle.

Glancing around the room she spots Ruby enter through a set of ornate wooden double doors. Another reason she’s not been able to really enjoy herself so far is because her best friend is having to dash around, checking that people’s glasses are full, there’s sufficient food being served, making introductions and helping guests connect with one another. Having Ruby by her side making rude comments under her breath, laughing at the costumes, would make this all so much more bearable.

Ruby gives Belle a small wave and weaves her way over to where she’s standing.

“Belles! You look absolutely stunning. Why on earth aren’t you showing yourself off rather than standing here like a wallflower?”

“I’ve been chatting,” Belle replies, a little too defensively if the waggle of Ruby’s eyebrows are anything to go by. “I’ve talked to at least a couple of financiers so far. And...”

Ruby hums as Belle’s voice tails away.

“There are loads of hot men here tonight. Seriously, loads. And not all of them are wearing wedding rings if you catch my drift.”

Belle very much catches Ruby’s drift. It’s just that she’s really not in the mood to work the room and have to flirt with slightly serious, slightly too up themselves men. She downs the rest of her champagne and is eagerly looking around to catch a server’s attention for a top up when she suddenly spots Gold come in, fashionably late, and her stomach churns, putting her off the idea of any more alcohol for the moment.

Ruby, eagle eyed as ever, immediately senses Belle stiffening next to her and follows her gaze to see what or who’s upset her.

She groans. “Oh no Belles. Please tell me he’s not the reason why you’re so out of sorts tonight.” 

Belle gives a tiny shrug, her throat tightening.

“He’s so not worth your time. You tried, you really did, but life’s too short to make yourself miserable about that old codger. He’s the idiot not you if he can’t see when he’s got a good thing going on. Seriously, fuck him.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Belle can’t help saying and wins a surprised snort from her friend.

“Fine, a poor choice of words. But you know what I mean. Plenty more fish in the sea. Like that guy over there,” Ruby says, pointing out a man, probably in his mid-thirties, fair hair, square jawed, tall, well over six feet she thinks, who’s examining the seating plan. “Go on, go talk to him. If nothing else it’ll piss Gold off when he sees you chatting up a young hottie.”

Regina – looking resplendent in a floor length fitted velvet gown with a scooped neckline decorated with seed pearls – beckons to Ruby.

“Gotta go, her majesty calls. I’ll catch you later. Now scoot!” and Belle finds herself being gently nudged in the direction of Mr Smoothie.

Fine. What has she really got to lose? Sighing, Belle slowly picks her way through the crowd.

00000

Well, Gold thinks, as he surveys the ballroom from behind a conveniently situated plotted plant whose leaves are about a foot long and rather handily conceal him from about half a dozen donors who have expressed a desire to meet with him this evening. 

These people may be brilliant at making money but you wouldn’t want to get stuck in a lift with any of them for more than about ninety seconds, he thinks darkly.

Still, things could be worse. He could, for example, be having a hot poker shoved up his arse. Or being force-fed Granny’s overpriced lasagne. As it is he’s been having a simply marvellous time at the gala, schmoozing people who are neither smart nor interesting while surreptitiously watching Belle flirting madly with that up and coming architect from across the room. Even from this distance he can see how she’s emphasising her conversation with a touch of his arm here, a brush of her hand there, as if she’s known the man all her life instead of half an hour. 

Legume seems to be basking in the attention, hanging on her very word and Gold thinks gloomily that he can hardly be blamed for that. Any man on the receiving end of that one thousand megawatt smile would be doing the same thing. Acknowledging this fact however doesn’t make him feel one jot better.

A glance at his watch tells him he’s got about another seven hours of this unending torture ahead of him so to cheer himself up he’s just snagging a mini bagel with salmon and cream cheese from a passing waiter when a waft of spicy perfume warns him he has company. He has to fight every instinct in his body to not tense up.

“Gold! Nice of you to finally turn up.” 

Regina flicks his Windsor & Young bespoke green silk tie covered in tiny red maple leaves. 

“Is this really the best you could come up with? You were supposed to come as Puck,” she rebukes him. “You could at least have tried to make an effort.”

He rescues his tie from her grasp; it cost $150 dollars and he doesn’t want to see any of the glaze from the duck vol-au-vent getting anywhere near it. 

“I’ve made a fucking effort, thank you all the same. I’m here, aren’t I?” he snaps.

They trade glares before Regina sighs. “Only just, Gold. What on earth are you doing lurking in the corner? You’re supposed to be working your magic like a grown ass man, not skulking amidst the foliage like a naughty school child.”

He pointedly ignores Regina in favour of taking a sip of what he grudgingly has to admit is excellent champagne, starting resolutely ahead while studiously avoiding the corner of the room where Belle’s holding court. He can just tell the mayor is busy scanning the room, looking for another bloody idiot to bore him to tears. It’s like a form of medieval torture minus the thumb screws. He’s going to need a lot more champagne if he’s to survive the night.

Regina makes a small, happy noise that immediately puts Gold on high alert. “They make a charming couple don’t you think?” she muses out loud and Gold’s stomach plummets as he realises he’d been a little too optimistic. It seems Regina has other prey in mind. “That really is a lovely dress she’s wearing, I must ask her where she found it.”

“I have no idea to whom you refer,’ Gold says, continuing to stare straight ahead like an Easter Island statue. “And even if I did, I’m not in the slightest bit interested in indulging in idle gossip.”

Regina moves around to face him, which at least serves to block the rest of the room from his view although he’s not keen on that malicious glint in her dark eyes. 

She purses her scarlet lips. “Hmm. You must think I was born yesterday. I know exactly how much you enjoy hoarding titbits of information in case they prove useful to you at a later date.” 

“Well, knowledge is power, Madam Mayor.” He skilfully spears a chipolata sausage from a waiter doing the rounds, and holding Regina’s gaze, ruminatively chews on it.

Regina refuses to be deflected. “I was actually talking about Miss French and Mr Legume. What a handsome couple they make. Both young, both extremely good looking and both single.” 

Gold’s grip on his champagne glass tightens and Regina’s smile turns smug.

“I’m so glad now I didn’t listen to you when we were finalising the seating plan. To think - if you’d had it your way, Belle would have been on the book sellers table stuck with a bunch of old fuddy duddies,” she helpfully reminds him, pushing the blade ever deeper into his heart. “I’ve really done her the most terrific favour in overruling you.”

He wants to kill her, he really does, but before he can turn thoughts into deeds, she’s touching his arm. “Anyway Gold, as much as I’ve enjoyed this little chinwag, we can’t stand around all night just talking to each other. Michael Williams, the senior partner at Williams Smythe asked to speak to you and we mustn’t keep him waiting. Come.”

He wants nothing more than to just go home, change into his favourite pair of pyjamas and pour himself a healthy measure of scotch but instead he finds himself following Regina as she hunts down her quarry. It’s going to be a very long night.

00000

“Are you sure you want another glass of wine Belle?’

Belle has never been surer of anything in her life. She could never have too much alcohol this evening if she wants to numb herself to the unfolding horror that is being seated next to Gaston Legume. He might look quite pretty if blond and beefy is your thing (it’s not) but for the last ninety minutes all she’s heard about is how rich and successful he is, how all he has to do is click his fingers and backers come running, begging to invest in his firm. 

She silently holds out her glass and watches as he makes a big show of reluctantly topping it up before sharing with the whole table how his mother and sister firmly believe that more than one glass of wine at a public event demonstrates a lack of professionalism. It’s not just Belle who shuffles uncomfortably at these words.

“So, Belle, remind me again. What is it exactly that you do?”

The question comes from Julia Fitzgerald, an elegant woman in her late forties or early fifties, and is followed by a tiny conspiratorial smile which gives Belle the courage to start telling them about how she’s planning to revolutionise the way libraries are utilised to support local communities. The guests lean in, seemingly genuinely interested.

She’s interrupted by a guffaw on her left-hand side. “Who actually cares about libraries though? Nobody reads books anymore. They’re so last century. It’s all about digital now. Hello, anyone here heard of Kindle.” Gaston looks around the table seeking support. “Am I right. Am I?’

Well he’d managed to be quiet for all of three minutes which is, Belle supposes, something to be grateful for. She plasters a polite smile on her face but as she’s about to give a spirited rebuttal, a team of staff swoop in to clear away the starter plates. She decides to take advantage of the interruption to pop to the ladies and possibly drown herself in a washbasin. Passing through a doorway she collides with someone coming in the opposite direction, who reaches out to steady her. A man. A firm, warm chest. Highly polished shoes. As her gaze travels up she meets a pair of bee brown eyes.

Gold.

Of course. 

Just when she thought her evening couldn’t actually get any worse.

“Belle.” Gold’s voice sounds husky. Perhaps she’d knocked the breath out of him.

“Gold.”

She tries to dodge past him but he remains where he is, effectively blocking her escape route.

He repeats her name. “Belle.” 

“You’ve already said that once. I think we both know my name by now.”

“Belle, please. Can we at least try and be civil with each other – for tonight at least?”

She stops her attempt to wriggle past him to fix him with a hard look. The champagne and two glasses of a rather nice sauvignon blanc have dissolved the internal filter that has kept her frustrations where Gold is concerned in check. He really is the limit.

“No. I don’t think so Gold. You’ve had plenty of chances to be civil and you’ve thrown them all in my face. So, you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to waste any more of my time and energy on someone like you.” She turns to brush past him but is brought to a halt when Gold speaks. His voice is crisp and cold.

“Eager to get back to your date, are we?”

Belle narrows her eyes at this. Gold’s tone has gone from supplicating to sarcastic in a moment.

“Really Miss French, I didn’t have you down as either stupid or desperate but it seems I don’t know you as well as I thought you did.”

“How. Dare. You.” The champagne and wine in her bloodstream are making Belle’s emotions fizz and pop, and she punctuates each word with a sharp jab of her forefinger in his ribcage. “One. You don’t own me. Two. You don’t have the right to tell me who I can and cannot talk to. And Three. It’s refreshing to be with someone who doesn’t play mind games all the time.”

As she speaks Belle moves closer and closer to Gold until they’re almost touching. Her heart is pounding, so enraged is she by his behaviour. In her heels, she’s the same height as him and she holds his gaze, blue on black.

“Cat got your tongue, Gold?” she asks. He stays silent, his eyes so dark she can’t read the expression in them. “Thought so. Once a coward, always a coward huh?” Belle makes to move past him again but he pulls her back, spinning her around until her back is pressed snugly up against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist so that she’s securely held in place. Belle can feel his heart beating a steady rhythm against her back while she can barely breathe.

“Brave words Miss French,” he whispers. “To tease the beast.” Gold runs his nose down the side of her throat before resting it against her pulse point. “But you shouldn’t test me,” and he bites down hard enough to make her cry out. “I do hope that isn’t going to bruise,” he whispers before laving the spot with first his lips and then his tongue. “Because people will talk.”

Belle can’t speak. Her mind is overloaded by sensation – heat soaking into her back, breath gusting against her cheek, throat throbbing from the bite and – she realises in shock – that’s not the only part of her that’s throbbing. She clenches her thighs. 

He throws her earlier words back at her. “What – cat got your tongue, Miss French?”

There’s a response forming in her head if not her mouth but it’s too late.

“Belle! Belle, where are you?” It’s Gaston bloody-know-it-all Legume and while Belle can’t quite tell if she’s relieved or frustrated at the interruption, she does know that she misses the warmth of Gold’s body as soon as he steps back to create some space between them. 

“It seems your beau is looking for you. I’d hate for you to keep him waiting.” Gold’s voice is deep as he growls behind her, his accent more pronounced than normal and it sends a thrill rippling through her. How can she even pretend that nothing’s happened after – after that. After being held impossibly tight and close, after being licked and bitten and owned. She glances over her shoulder to see Gold making his way back to the dining room, as outwardly smooth as ever. But she knows he can’t not have been affected by what’s just happened between them.

“There you are!” Gaston arrives, smug and oblivious and she wants to slap that grin off his face. “Where have you been?”

Belle would love to be able to say that she’s just experienced quite possibly the most sexually charged five minutes of her life but Gaston would almost certainly manage to make it all about him, which would be intolerable.

“I bumped into an old friend,” she lies. “I’ll just be five minutes.” Belle watches him leave and heaves a sigh of relief. Once she reaches the sanctuary of the bathroom she stands in front of the mirror. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, Belle can just make out the beginnings of a bruise at the base of her throat. Gold’s mark right there, for everyone to see.


	11. Chapter 11

Belle distractedly chases a lone pistachio around her plate, her mind focused less on the buttery pastry and more on what on earth just happened between her and an unexpectedly predatory (and worryingly hot) Gold. Somewhere off to her left Gaston is still droning endlessly on about his most recent award won for architectural design, and on the opposite side of the table she’s is vaguely aware of the mild flirtation taking place between forkfuls of caramel tart but Belle’s mind is too busy replaying on a loop the sensation of warm, wet lips against her throat and what it felt like to have sharp teeth grazing her skin to really care that much.

And how much she’d enjoyed it. How much it had turned her on. How much more she’d wanted from this most difficult of men.

And to make matters even more awkward, between the main course plates being cleared and dessert being served, Regina had stepped up to the microphone to urge her guests to change seats and “optimise networking opportunities.” On the upside, Gaston took the opportunity to switch seats with Belle so he’s now bending the ear of some twenty something blonde whose inane giggling seems to be going down better than Belle’s polite responses to his grandstanding. On the downside, the move has left Belle seated directly facing Gold’s table.

Far enough away to not be able to hear his voice. Close enough to be able to catch his eye and see who’s he’s talking to.

Which means that every time she takes a sip of wine or a bite of her dessert, she unfailingly sees Gold watching her, gaze dark, expression unreadable. The effect this has on her is disturbing; she knows her face is flushed and that it’s spreading downwards to settle deep between her legs resulting in an ache that stays there no matter how many times she crosses and uncrosses her legs and to compound matters, there’s a sensation of coiling rope low down in her belly that makes eating rather challenging.

She switches legs again.

Still no better.

Belle feels completely thrown by what’s happened between them tonight. Yes, it’s fair to say that their relationship has never been exactly straightforward, swinging rather wildly between open warfare to a grudging acknowledgement that they’re actually quite well matched in terms of intellect and a healthy appetite for one-upmanship.

But underneath the open (and not so open) hostility, Belle knows that there’s something more to their circling of each other, more to the goading, the battle of wits. That this ‘something’ might be to do with his soft hair, his cheekbones that could cut diamonds, the fact that despite all the money he has locked in a vault somewhere he chooses to keep his teeth sharp and crooked and not-very-white. And the fact that he treats her as his equal, his match in intellect, is one of the few people who can see beyond the porcelain exterior to the grit and determination beneath.

Which is why she has pushed the boundaries of their relationship, turning up at his ridiculous pink house (and really, how could you fear a man whose property is the same colour as a tub of taramousalata), only to be rejected. And why she’d sought revenge by hitting him where she’d knew it would hurt most, by testing his love of the fine print, the letter of the law, the detail in contracts that nobody but Belle would bother to read.

And this ‘push me pull you’ approach had seemed to be working. That time in her apartment, when he’d opened up to her, showing Belle his soft underbelly in place of his preferred thick dragon hide armour, his honesty had completely disarmed her but then he’d panicked and fled before she could tell him how she felt in return.

And between then and now, Gold had determinedly avoided her. No visits to the library, the shop closed for business, shutters down, lights off. Belle strongly suspects he’s spent his time busily polishing his armour, making sure the dragon scales were in pristine condition and primed to repel all attempts at wriggling in close to his beating heart.

And now, this evening, he’s emerged from his lair with a new, sexually aggressive outer layer, which has done nothing to put Belle off. Far from it. Whenever she smells citrus from now on, she’s going to be reminded of what it felt like to be pulled flush to Gold’s torso, feeling her legs resting between his. Feeling his…

“Are you feeling quite well, Belle?”

Belle startles and the pistachio nut she’s so painstakingly chased and captured drops from her spoon to roll away across the plate before reaching the safety of a small ice cream puddle.

Julia is looking at her, a kind expression on her face.

“Oh, yes, I’m – er, I’m absolutely fine. I was just wondering if Regina might share the recipe for this with me,” she manages.

Gaston breaks off from a no doubt scintillating monologue to guffaw. “Come now, Belle, no need to be modest. There’s no shame in admitting that for someone like you this is probably all a little overwhelming.” 

He turns to Julia, smiling, trying to drag her down to his level. It doesn’t work if Julia’s smile in response is anything to go by. It’s so icy cold that Belle has to refrain from shivering.

“I don’t believe I was asking you,” Julia replies, her tone glacial. “So, unless you have something to say that doesn’t involve denigrating your fellow guests, I suggest you return to your earlier conversation, and Miss French and I will continue ours. Uninterrupted.”

Gaston’s brow furrows as he processes this and Belle thoughtfully steps in. “You look a little confused, Mr Legume, so perhaps I can help. Denigrating. It means to belittle. To slight. To insult.” The puzzled look is replaced by one of badly suppressed fury. Belle bites down on a small smile of victory. “Has that helped, or would you like me to continue?”

Belle notices that she now has the attention of the entire table, with even the flirtation being put on hold in favour of seeing how this might all play out, which rather pleases her. Gaston’s face turns an unattractive shade of red and he throws his napkin to the table in a fit of pique. 

He snarls at her. “Yes, well, thank you for the lesson Miss French. I bow to your better command of the English language.” Back to calling her Miss French. She calls that a win.

“Any time at all,” Belle replies sweetly and throws Julia a triumphant grin. Slowly, chatter around the table resumes and as she relaxes back in her seat it’s just in time to catch Gold’s gaze slide away from her to settle on something just over her left shoulder. Not that Belle is watching him too closely in return but she wonders if she might just have imagined the slight widening of Gold’s eyes before his face resumes its usual neutral expression.  
She’d give this more thought but a bevy of waiting staff swoop down to clear away a set of empty plates and take requests for teas and coffees and her mind turns to whether she would like coffee with cream or a peppermint tea to have alongside petits fours. 

00000

“What’s that on your neck?” Ruby gleefully asks, when Belle excuses herself from the table to stretch her legs before what’s been billed as an evening of entertainment for guests as they enjoy a selection of digestifs.

“Shut up,” Belle whispers, while surreptitiously rubbing what she is sure is a blooming bruise.

“Is that what I think it is?” Ruby is doggedly pursuing her line of enquiry as if she’s running a police enquiry from a prison cell rather than having a quick chat with her best friend between courses at a gala event.

Belle keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead. She doesn’t need to look at Ruby to imagine the look of glee on her face.

“Seriously, Ruby. Shush.”

“Nope. Shan’t. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” There’s a pause. “Please tell me it wasn’t that appalling oaf you were flirting with earlier.”

“Gold’s many things Rubes, but he’s not an oaf.”

Belle immediately tumbles head first into Ruby’s far from subtle trap. That fourth glass of wine was clearly a mistake.

There’s a low whistle by Belle’s ear. “Gold? Seriously, Gold? Gold did…that to you?

Belle squirms before muttering a soft “damn it” under her breath.

Ruby sounds absolutely thrilled. “The old dog. I didn’t think he’d ever have the balls…” 

“Ruby, I swear to God, if you say another word,” Belle threatens. “It was – it was unplanned. I’m sure he’s regretting it already.”

“So, I take it that you’re not?”

“Not what?”

“Regretting letting Gold sink his teeth into your throat like a vampire.”

Belle kicks Ruby on the shin.

“Ow, Belles. That hurt”.

“Good,” Belle says with not a little satisfaction. “I did warn you but you just wouldn’t let it lie.”

She turns her face to see Ruby rubbing her leg while scanning the room.

“Oh, incoming at one o’clock,” Ruby says. “Regina’s sister. Madder than a box of frogs, that one, and she’s on the prowl.” She adds cryptically, “I hope Gold’s not in the vicinity.”

Before Belle can quiz her on what exactly she means by that Ruby says cheerfully “Gotta dash, see you later,” before loping off, leaving Belle alone to watch a tall, slim woman with long wavy red hair dressed in a tight green sequinned dress leaving very little to the imagination cutting to and from across the dining room. 

Belle is busily pondering on how the mayor and this woman could possibly be related when Ms Mills (or whatever her name is) pulls up beside her. A cloying wave of sickly sweet scent assails Belle’s nostrils, making her wince, as without so much as an introduction, a terse question is flung her way.

“Have you seen Gold anywhere, he promised me a drink?”

Rude.

Belle sticks her hand out, determined to show this woman how to be socially adept.

“Hello. I’m Belle French, Head Librarian here in Storybrooke.”

She thinks she sees a look of disdain cross her companion’s face before a reluctant hand is offered in return.

“How – fascinating. Zelena Mills. Regina’s sister.” 

Belle’s eyes flit around the room in search of rescue but everyone she knows is engrossed in conversation. It seems she must engineer her own escape.

“You must be very proud of what the mayor has achieved this evening. She’ll have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars in donations before the night’s over.”

Zelena sniffs. “I suppose so, if you enjoy this sort of provincial thing.” She pauses. “Now, have you seen Gold or not?”

Belle obligingly looks around to see if Zelena’s prey is anywhere to be seen. She glances over to where an oversized plant stands, its leaves at least a foot long and she’s just wondering where on earth Regina found something like that and more importantly how she managed to fit it in here when a tiny movement catches her attention. 

If she’s not very much mistaken there’s a black shoe poking out from behind the stem and as she raises her head a pair of dark eyes frantically signal to her to, she imagines, not give his hiding place away.

“Not,” Belle replies. “Sorry,” she adds, insincerely, “but I thought I saw him leave through that door over there,” and points in the opposite direction to the plant. Zelena brushes past her without a word of thanks, heels clacking sharply and Belle turns back to face the plant.

Charming.

“You owe me,” she mouths at the foliage before returning to her table.

00000

Coffee drunk, dainty macarons (vanilla, raspberry, lavender, apricot, yuzu, hazelnut) consumed, a gentle hum of contentment fills the air; a lull before the evening’s entertainment begins.

Sure enough, Regina soon detaches herself from the latest round of glad-handing and makes her way to a raised stage, in front of a gauzy curtain that shifts and shimmers in the breeze.

She waits until there is complete silence in the room before starting to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, good evening and welcome to the annual Storybrooke Gala. I’m delighted that so many of you here tonight have embraced this year’s theme of a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream – really the costumes this year would not look out of place at the Met Gala. Miss Harbottle in particular has excelled herself this year.”

There’s a ripple of amusement around the room. Miss Harbottle thoughtfully strokes the dead – whatever it is – hanging around her neck.

Regina only successfully conceals a shudder. “Yes, well. We’ve already raised three hundred and fifty thousand dollars through your generous donations so far.” She pauses to allow for the applause to die down, and Belle has to admire the way the mayor is working the room. “But we can do better than that, can’t we?”

More applause and Regina’s smile grows, lips glowing red.

“So, with no more ado, and due to popular demand, we are now going to host an auction.” Belle can’t resist looking over to where Gold is frantically looking around as if searching out suitable escape routes, eyes a little wild, hair slightly dishevelled as though he’s been running his hands through it.

“Now for those of you who attended last year, you may recall that one of the bids was won by my own sister – a private dinner with one of Storybrooke’s most prominent and successful business men, none other than our very own Alexander Gold.”

Alexander.

Not Alfonso. Not Albert. Not Arthur. Not even Arsehole. Just a good traditional Scottish name. It actually rather suits him, she thinks, and wonders if he likes it being abbreviated to Alex. Or Al. Al Gold.

Gold has stopped his shuffling and is giving a very good impression of a statue. Nothing moves apart from his eyes, which meet Belle’s for a moment, or at least for long enough for her to see that he’s seething. 

She wouldn’t want to be in Regina’s shoes tomorrow. 

Seemingly oblivious to the fact she’s signed her own death warrant, Regina is happily whipping her audience up into a frenzy. “But we can do better than that this year, can’t we?” With a snap of her fingers the curtains are drawn open to reveal a huge digital screen that reads “Auction for Good,” at the same time that the waiting staff issue numbered paddles to each table.

“I’d like to invite the District Attorney to the stage. James will be our auctioneer for the evening. James, please come and join me.”

A man, probably in his late fifties, with short salt-and-pepper hair who tonight appears to have come dressed as a faun, mounts the stairs to stand next to Regina, seemingly unembarrassed to be wearing a pair of ornate horns. He is handed a gavel and ushered to the podium.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m delighted to be here this evening and help raise money to support three important causes. First, to put in place a programme of regeneration around the docks; restoring the old warehouses to their former glory will I am confident, attract both established and up-and-coming businesses to the area. Second, to create a new urban wildlife sanctuary on the old scrapyard site to benefit both flora, fauna and people. And third, to oversee the much-needed refurbishment of Storybrooke Library, now we have finally appointed Miss French as the new head librarian. So - without further ado, shall we open the proceedings with Lot Number One: A whale spotting daytrip with Killian Jones. Let’s start the bidding at three hundred dollars.”

Belle watches with amusement as paddles are waved with increasing enthusiasm as Regina ensures the alcohol continues to flow throughout the course of the evening. The boat trip goes for eight hundred dollars and that sets the tone for the next few lots: four seats at the chef’s table at a Michelin starred Japanese restaurant in Boston (five thousand dollars); a champagne tasting session for six (seven thousand five hundred); a helicopter flight in New York plus a night in a four-star hotel (a very generous ten thousand).

At this rate, every single last hole in her roof will be patched up.

On her table, the bidding has been relatively restrained so far. Julia bid for and won a picnic hamper, filled with hams, cheeses, pâté, luxury crackers and bonbons. The flirty couple who have progressed from sharing forkfuls of dessert to hand holding bid for a luxury weekend in California, which Belle can’t help feeling is rather presumptious of them, but other than that people have been relatively circumspect.

Belle takes a sip of a rather delicious Armagnac that blazes a welcome trail of heat down her throat. Relaxed, she peeps over the brim of her glass to see that Gold is looking a trifle more ruffled than at the start of the evening. He’s resting his chin on hands that are locked together, a faint smile on his lips as he listens to the younger man he’s sitting next to, and if Belle is not mistaken the knot in that green tie of his has been loosened slightly revealing a tiny bit of pale flesh that makes her mouth go dry.

Gold’s gaze brushes past Belle before coming back to rest on her face. For what feels like minutes they stare at each other until Gold with a minute gesture tips his own glass of what might be scotch in her direction.

Now it’s not just the Armagnac that’s creating a burning sensation in her stomach.

Another leg cross.

Ruby, passing by with what Belle feels is bad timing, whispers ‘Get a room’ before vanishing as quickly as she appeared.

They move onto the next lot. It’s getting late now so they must surely be finishing soon. Sure enough, James throws the audience a smile that has surely won over many a jury in his time. “Don’t worry ladies and gentlemen, we’re very nearly at the end of the auction so there will be plenty of time for you all to stretch your legs, mingle a little at the bar and shower compliments on each other’s outfits.” Subconsciously he strokes one of his horns. 

“There’s just one lot left, but I assure you I have saved the best for last, have I not Madam Mayor?”

Regina smiles out across the audience and Belle spots Gold stiffen before sinking down low into his seat. She wants to reach across the room, taking once of his large hands in hers to reassure him that surely not even Regina would be so cruel as to set him up with Zelena for the second year in a row.

“Miss French, would you mind joining us up here?”

For a moment, Belle’s brain doesn’t quite compute the words that have just been uttered until she glances around to see a sea of encouraging smiles being directed at her.

“Go on my dear,” Julia urges, while Gaston, who’s three sheets to the wind, leers lopsidedly at her, her previous transgression either forgotten or forgiven, before muttering “this is going to be good.”

Something cold and hard settles in the pit of Belle’s stomach. Anything that Gaston thinks is good is going to be anything but, she thinks. Rising to her feet, anxious and feeling exposed, her eyes snap to Gold, who is now sitting very upright, with an expression on his face she’s unable to read but which is doing nothing to settle her nerves. 

“Miss French, if you please,” Regina calls, tone imperious but – is that laughter colouring her voice?

With every eye on the room watching her every move, Belle makes her way slowly to the stage and climbs the stairs as if climbing a scaffold.

“Ah, delightful, quite delightful,” her would-be executioner booms. 

“Now Miss French here, so I’m told, has already made a wonderful start to her career in Storybrooke, revolutionising our library service. But the same little bird tells me the building is in need of serious repair work, especially to the roof.”

Holding Belle’s elbow as if sensing she might make a dash for it, he gently turns her so she’s looking out across the ballroom. Ruby she sees is leaning up against the door jamb rolling her eyes. Gaston, who had seemed to be down and out has apparently made a remarkable recovery and is now giving her a very thorough looking over as if she was a prize heffer, which makes her want to throw up all over him. And Gold. Gold is staring unblinkingly at her, the hand that is holding his glass clenched so tightly it looks like he and it might shatter at any moment.

The sense of foreboding she’s feeling grows until it threatens to overwhelm her.

“But Miss French is far better placed that I am to explain why raising money for the library is so important. Belle – if I may call you that – please say a few words before we start the bidding.

Belle blinks once, then blinks again. This is really not how she expected her evening to unfold. But the sooner she speaks, the sooner she can be away from the stage and back in her seat.

She beams at her hosts, and hope it’s reached her eyes. “Well thank you for those warm words, James. As you know I have only recently taken up the post here of Head Librarian. But in the short time I’ve been here, I have seen how important the services I can provide are to this community.”

At this point Gaston struggles to his feet to raise a toast in Belle’s direction.

“Aye Aye Captain,” he slurs. He turns to the table next to him and smirks. “And we all know what sort of services she’s offering, eh boys?”

Gold is half out of his seat but is restrained by a fellow diner while her heckler is hastily shushed. Belle’s icy glare blasts Gaston into silence.

She continues. “My services can support the most vulnerable in society; the lonely, people without a large disposable income. They offer opportunities to make new friends, take up hobbies, share learning. But the building is old and the roof is filled with holes so every time it rains more damage is sustained to both books and the infrastructure itself.”

Belle turns to smile again at James and Regina. “So, I am hugely grateful to the mayor for choosing the library to be one of tonight’s causes, and equally grateful to everyone tonight who has bid for lots. I hope the last lot of the evening outdoes all those that have gone before it. And with that thank you – and good luck!”

She starts to make her way to the front of the stage when James gently tugs her back.

“Well,” Regina says, “with those words of encouragement, and with no further ado, here we have Lot number 10.”

There’s a pause, followed by the sort of dark-eyed smile that signals danger. 

“A night with Belle French.”

Belle opens her mouth to protest but her words are drowned out by a several loud cheers of approval.

James picks up from where Regina leaves off and inadvertently proceeds to sell Belle down the river, happily oblivious to the waves of fury radiating from next to him that could very well drown him. “Miss French here is – to my great bafflement – single.” Eyes twinkling, he singles out two or three of the tables where the younger contingent have been seated. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, how could you not want to bid for an evening of great conversation over dinner. Followed perhaps by dancing. Or stargazing.”

Belle to her horror can see people reaching for their paddles. She’s going to be sold like a slave in the market place to the highest bidder.

“So, what shall we start the bidding at?” James asks. Before he can start proceedings off, there’s a call of a thousand dollars from the floor. Behind Belle the huge screen comes to life – huge numbers on a blue screen.

“Well someone’s keen. I like it,” James says. “A thousand dollars to start. Well, come on, I know you can all do better than that.”

“Five thousand dollars.” 

Gaston Bloody Legume. Belle closes her eyes, unable to look at him, slobbering into his brandy glass. She’d happily kill him and spend the rest of her life behind bars if it would stop him from drooling at the thought of winning her. Although she’s sure the sheriff could get her off with a suspended sentence.

Before anyone can respond, Gaston revises his own bid. “No, make that ten thousand,” he bellows before glaring belligerently around the room, daring anyone to outbid him. Julia has to duck before he takes her out with his paddle he’s waving around. “But I want a bit more than just dinner and a dance, if you know what I mean.” 

The bidding rises rapidly to an almost unbelievable twenty seven thousand dollars, and Belle catches Ruby’s eye to plead silently for her to make an intervention, to call Emma and the cavalry to swoop in and just arrest Gaston for sexual harassment. She is never going to forgive Regina for putting her through this ordeal, for throwing her under a bus for the sake of raising a few thousand pounds.

As if she’s read Belle’s mind, and perhaps realising that what should have been a light-hearted end to what has been a highly successful event has turned into something unsavoury that might well tarnish not just her own reputation but that of future events, Regina steps forward as if she’s going to stop the proceedings.

And then a new voice enters the fray. A deep, gravelly Scottish burr that could belong to only one person.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”


	12. Chapter 12

Belle doesn’t know it but Gold has been watching the auction unfold with jealousy gnawing away at his insides. His emotions, usually so tightly buttoned up, have been swinging wildly from the moment he stepped inside the building this evening, and he places the blame squarely on both Regina and the alcohol, which has been flowing so liberally the entire time.

It’s Regina’s fault he’s so wound up, and the alcohol’s fault that he acted on it. He would never normally behave in such an inappropriate way around any woman let alone someone who he actually - likes, if he hadn’t been so goaded in the first place. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so riled up, allowing someone to get under his skin the way Belle has managed to do.

And then, just when he thought he’d got himself back on to an even keel, Regina bloody Mills has to go and drag Belle up on stage and let her be treated as if she was no better than a prize heifer being sold at market, let her be humiliated publicly and place her at risk of being ‘won’ by someone as dangerous as Gaston Legume.

Gold, from his vantage point, had not missed how the man has been pawing at Belle for the last hour or so; nor had he missed the way Belle tried valiantly to maintain a healthy distance from those filthy paws. The man is an absolute menace and on more than one occasion Gold has found himself reaching for his phone, ready to call in a debt from the sheriff, only to reluctantly desist. Legume may be a sex pest who fully deserves to be carted off in cuffs to the cells but Regina would not thank him for seeing to it that her gala makes the headlines for all the wrong reasons.

“Ten thousand dollars,” James calls out, to whoops and cheers from an increasingly merry crowd.

Gold watches as Belle fidgets up on the stage, running her hands down the length of her exquisite costume, her usually pale cheeks flushed red with what he assumes is most definitely not pleasure. 

A thought pops unwanted into his head of exactly how Belle might look when in the throes of passion, lying on a set of Egyptian cotton sheets, perhaps dark blue, with her long auburn hair spread around her like a halo, chest heaving, eyes bright, lips parted and plump, long, pale legs…

“Gold,” someone whispers from behind him. “Gold.” 

It’s Miss Lucas and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful for her intruding on his thoughts or not but either way he subtly moves the napkin on his lap to hide any hint of an inconvenient swelling before turning his head to one side. The usually unflappable woman has an unhappy look on her face which doesn’t bode well for the rest of his evening. “What is it Miss Lucas?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “Surely it can wait until after the auction.”

Ruby shakes her head. “Could I have a word with you in private, now?” she asks. “It’s – uh – it’s important.” She nods her head in the direction of the stage, where the bids have climbed another seven thousand dollars. It seems Belle is in high demand.

“Very well,” he sighs, excusing himself from the table. He’s dryly amused that nobody pays his departure a great deal of attention; they’re all far too engrossed in the drama unfolding before them to care where their host is off to. 

Ruby takes Gold by the arm and practically frogmarches him over to yet another oversized plant, this one with slender leaves and tiny white flowers. One of the fronds tickles his cheek as Ruby releases him from her grasp, allowing him to take a small step backwards. He knows she wouldn’t willing drag him away unless it was important so he asks her, not unkindly, to explain what on earth is going on. 

“Gold. You cannot. Cannot let Belle be bought by Gaston.”

Ah. He had assumed it was some behind-the-scenes melodrama that Regina needed his help with.

His heart thumps treacherously hard. One beat. Then another. He hadn’t been expecting that. 

He glances toward the stage. “I’m not entirely sure what it is you expect me to do, Miss Lucas. I can’t exactly call a halt to the proceedings, now can I?” 

Ruby folds her arms and hisses at him. “That is exactly what I expect you to do, Gold. You need to save Belle from at best being sold to the highest bidder, at worst having to spend an evening with Legume.”

He tries to scoff at this. “Oh, come on Miss Lucas, he’s just showing off, like a peacock. You can’t seriously believe he actually has the balls or indeed the money to keep this up for much longer.”

Ruby out-scoffs Gold, and throws in a dollop of scorn for good measure. “You haven’t seen what he’s been like around Belle all evening. Flirting wildly with her, then sulking because she keeps knocking him back, and trying to belittle her in front of all the other guests. Take it from me, a guy like that doesn’t like being told ‘no’. A guy like him sees women as little more than a commodity, like he does glass and steel. If you think he’s going to back down, then you’re sadly mistaken and Belle, well Belle is in for a hellish time.”

Gold’s mouth suddenly feels dry and he licks his lips to try and moisten them.

Ruby is still talking. “Is that what you want to happen? Is it really Gold, because somehow I find that hard to believe.” 

Every word he hears is cutting him like a razorblade. He snaps at her. “No of course I don’t want to see her hurt. But I don’t see what I can do to help. Surely others are better placed than I to intervene.”

The glare Ruby throws his direction is fierce enough to raze the ground beneath his feet to ashes.

“Like who, exactly? Would you rather see Killian Jones step and be the hero of the night?”

Gold winces. Ruby certainly knows how to hit him where it hurts and is unafraid to follow up with another slash of the blade. Hands now on hips she moves to close the gap between them.

“Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me with a straight face that you can’t think of a single way you might be able to help put a stop to this debacle.” Gold thinks he hears a ‘for fuck’s sake’ follow that question but bites down on his instinct to remind her about her language. He suspects that might not go down very well.

He remains silent. Eighteen thousand. Nineteen thousand.

Eventually Ruby snaps. “Money, Gold, you have money. You can outbid Gaston and all the other fuckers who think they’re in with half a chance of winning. 

He spins round to look at her, unable to conceal the shock that must be written all across his face. “You mean I should bid?” He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Christ, that’s a bloody stupid idea. If nothing else, it makes me no better than Legume or any of the other lechers in the room. I won’t do it. Belle would never be able to look at me again if I bid.”

“She’ll never speak to you again if you don’t”, Ruby replies.

Gold exhales before leaning back against the door frame and counting to three. “And what makes you so sure about that, Miss Lucas?” 

Twenty-two thousand. Twenty-two thousand, two hundred and fifty.

He takes his eyes off Belle whose whole body is now vibrating with nervous tension as Ruby leans in to say, “because of the mark you left on her throat.” 

Gold can’t help the physical jolt at those words. How on earth would she know that.

“Because Belle told me.” 

It would seem he’d spoken aloud. He wants to curl up and die but before he can do so Ruby is back to whispering poison in his ear that send a chill down his spine.

“And because I can only name one person who Belle would even contemplate getting up close and personal with. And his name is not Gaston bloody Legume.”

She holds up a finger to shush Gold, as if she can sense that he wants to argue with her. “Don’t even bother denying it. Now so help me God, if you value your life, will you just this one time put your feelings to one side and your money where your mouth – or rather where your mouth, and teeth, and tongue have almost certainly been and put an end to this farce.”

By the time Gold’s had time to properly digest and be enraged by all the insinuations dripped into his ear about his cowardice and wealth, Regina’s assistant has vanished from his side and he’s left alone to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages of following taking up her advice.

The advantages: he saves Belle from being ravaged by Gaston and wins the chance to spend a night with her, and after this he’s pretty confident that Regina will never, ever hold another auction at one of these infernal events which means he won’t have to deal with Zelena again.

And his body won’t be found lying in a ditch in the morning.

Disadvantages: Gold’s reputation in the town is sunk without trace and he’ll have to live with the label of lecher, plus the night with Belle will be spent in complete silence because she won’t be speaking to him and Regina will no doubt come up with a new, twisted form of torture to drive him insane, auction or no auction.

James’ exhortation to the diners to up the bidding interrupts his meandering thoughts and he watches, grinding his teeth as Gaston, the lumbering giant, waves his paddle around as if trying to manually land an aircraft. “Twenty-seven thousand,” he bellows, throwing a challenging look around the room, daring anyone to top that. 

Gold turns his attention to the stage in time to see Belle flinch before trying her hardest to smile. His heart shatters at the sight of how dignified she’s being, up there all alone, and with that, he makes up his mind. This cannot continue. His conscience will not allow Belle to be so mistreated, even if it means she never forgives him for what he’s about to do.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

A deathly hush fills the room following Gold’s words. He pushes away from the door jamb to make his way back to his seat, conscious that everyone’s attention is now firmly fixed on him. His skins prickles. 

Up on the stage, when he can finally bring himself to look, James is doing his best impression of a fish floundering on dry ground. Good, Gold think, it serves the silly sod right. Belle on the other hand is holding herself very still, her eyes locked on to his face, expression hard to read from this distance. He can’t tell if it’s relief. Shock. Or if she’s just now completely numb to the new horror that is unfolding before her. He can’t look away from her though, so they continue to stare at each other for what feels to him like an eternity.

A number of heads are starting to swivel from Gold to Belle, and then back to Gold again as though they’re at a tennis match. Someone on his table, he’s not sure who, says “Good show, Gold,” and another voice pipes up, saying “Very decent of you, very decent indeed.” The woman next to him, whose name eludes him for a moment (Mrs Winklestone? Miss Wibbleforce?) flashes him the warmest smile she’s shown him the entire evening.

One person considerably less happy at this turn of events is Gaston.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he roars. “You can’t just start bidding now, after all this time.” He waves at Belle, whose gaze transfers from Gold to fix on her would-be suitor. It would make the sun melt, it’s so icy cold. 

“She’s mine, dammit. I’ve bid for her and I will not let you take her away from me.” He turns to Regina, seeking her endorsement but Regina’s face is hard and set; he clearly won’t be getting any support from that quarter. A murmur of discontent is now starting to make its presence heard, like the rumble of distant thunder. A storm is brewing.

As Regina takes a step closer to Belle, Gold turns to Gaston and bares his teeth. “I believe this is an auction and as such I believe I have as much right to bid as you do.” He keeps his voice deliberately low and calm which seems to only aggravate Gaston further.

“She’s mine. I’ve won her fair and square.”

Another rumble of thunder.

And Regina has had enough. She stalks to the front of the stage and eyes Gaston with clear distaste. “Mr Legume. Please. This is meant to be a light-hearted fundraising effort and I would appreciate it if you could tone your behaviour and language down. I would have you treat Miss French with the respect she deserves.”

“I will do no such thing,” Gaston declares.

“Well in that case I must declare your bids null and void and draw the auction to a close.”

She ignores Gaston’s loud protests. “Miss French, thank you for being such a good sport. Mr Gold, congratulations and thank you for your generous donation which I’m sure will go a long way to repairing the library roof. I am sure you will both enjoy your evening together. Miss Lucas, perhaps you could escort Mr Legume to the lounge area and serve him some coffee. Black and strong.”

Regina waits until Ruby lopes across the room and manhandles Gaston out of the door, Gold enjoying every moment of his undignified departure, the protests fading into silence. It might well be somebody else’s body they find in a ditch tomorrow morning.

“Well, now that little drama is over, let’s put our hands together and show James some appreciation.” 

As people applaud, Gold sinks back into his seat and watches as the auctioneer escorts Belle back to her seat. All the guests at his table raise their glasses to him in a silent toast and Gold takes a sip of his wine. Just maybe something might yet be salvaged from this evening.

00000

Belle and Ruby are leaning over the balustrade overlooking the gardens, arms linked. It’s close to midnight and Belle is finally able to find something amusing about this evening because Zelena Mills is currently hunting between the hedges for her latest quarry – Gaston. Gaston is doing his very best to conceal himself behind a stone angel but it looks like Zelena’s caught his scent. She happens to glance upwards as she trots along the pathway that leads to a selection of topiary, and sees them observing her. Ruby very thoughtfully points out where Gaston is hiding, before giving her an encouraging thumbs-up.

They watch as Zelena darts away. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer person, eh Belles,” Ruby murmurs. 

“Who, Zelena or Gaston,” Belle asks and they both cackle before high fiving each other.

“Hmm,” Belle pretends to think about it. “Tough choice. They definitely deserve each other though.”

She takes a thoughtful sip of her brandy. “She was after Gold earlier. He had to conceal himself behind one of those massive pot plants in the dining room. I lied to save him and told him he owed me.”

Ruby turns to face her friend. “Well I guess that makes you even then.”

Belle purses her mouth. “D’you think that’s why he did it. Outbid Gaston, I mean? To cancel out his debt?”

“Hard to know exactly what goes on in that pretty little Scottish head of his although I’d say he wouldn’t much care for the idea of you being in Gaston’s company for more than sixty seconds.”

“You think he’s pretty?”

Ruby snorts. “That’s what you took away from that, is it?” She squeezes Belle’s arm fondly. “For an old fossil, he’s not too bad looking I suppose. I have to say I’d have found it pretty hot the way he said ‘fifty thousand dollars’. If he was my type, that is, which – just to be clear – he isn’t.”

There’s a dry cough behind them and they both shriek. Belle’s glass drops from her hand and shatters at her feet.

“I’m relieved to hear it, Miss Lucas.”

Both women pivot very slowly to face Gold, who’s holding his cane in one hand, a bottle of Courvoisier in the other, a glass upside down covering the top of the bottle, and sporting a sly smirk. His hair shines silver in the light that bathes the balcony and the slight breeze lifts it so it falls around his face, softening the expression in his eyes.

Ruby throws him a cheeky grin. “I’ll be seeing you later, Gold,” she promises and then after a quick rub of her hand against Belle’s arm, she disappears back inside. As the doors close behind her a faint melody fills the air for a moment; there’s a string quartet playing somewhere in the building.

“I was going to offer you a drink but, uh,” and Gold points at the tiny shards of glass on the ground. 

Belle shrugs. “I’ve probably had enough to drink for one evening anyway,” she says, “but you go ahead.”

She watches as he rests the cane against the stone façade and sloshes a generous measure of brandy into his glass. He says nothing for a moment, focusing instead on savouring the first sip or two, and she watches again as he swallows, enjoying the way his throat convulses and there it is again, that hot coiling in her belly.

He glances up at her from beneath his lashes and the air between them seems to thicken.

“Are you sure you won’t join me?” he asks. When she declines for the second time, he drinks again, more deeply this time.

“For Dutch courage.”

He looks at her.

“We need to talk.”


End file.
